THE 

WORKS 

OF 



LORD BYRON 












; • / 



PRINTED BY JULES DTDOT, SENIOR, 

fll'E DU POXT-DE-T.ODI, N" 6. 




Jlgglgl INSTE AD ARUEY | |fe^^^^g^g| f MISS0LUNGH1 









^j^.-' JU. -■AvUS^ .^Aa ■ 



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THE 



WORKS 



OF 



LORD BYRON 



We 

INCLUDING 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 




PARIS 

PUBLISHED BY A. AND W. GALIGNANI, 

N° 18, RUE VIVIENNE. 

1851. 



?TH*so 
,Eji 



p 17 H^ 



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S"J 



NOTICE OF THE PUBLISHERS. 



The present is the most complete, we might even say the only complete Edition 
M Lord Byron's Works hitherto printed. It contains, besides all the mis- 

laneous poetry and fragments given by Mr Moore in his Life of the Noble 
I rd, the various poems alluded to in that work as forming an unpublished 

ume ; also suppressed stanzas of Ghilde Harold and Don Juan, and a 
number of fugitive pieces with which friends of Lord Bvron have favoured the 
publishers. 






I 



<&onUnt$. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON 

HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

On leaving Newstead Abbey .... 
Epitaph on a Friend . . . 

A Fragment 

The Tear 

An Occasional Prologue 

On the Death of Mr Fox 

Stanzas to a Lady • • 

To M *" 

To Woman 

To M.S. G 

Song • 

To*** 

To Mary 

Damaetas 

To Marion 

Oscar of Alva 

To the Duke of D— 

Translations and Imitations. 

Adrian's Address to his Soul, -when dying 

Translation 

Translation from Catullus 

Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and 

Tibullus 

Translation from Catullus 

Imitated from Catullus 

Translation from Anacreon — To his Lyre 

Ode III . . 

Fragment from the Prometheus Vinctus 
The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 
Translation from the Medea of Euripides 
Fugitive Pieces. 

Thoughts suggested by a College Examina- 
tion 

To the Earl of *** 

Granta, a Medley 

Lachin y Gair 

To Romance 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey 

To E.N. L., Esq 

To 

Stanzas 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
yard of Harrow on the Hill .... 

The death of Calmar and Orla .... 

Critique extracted from the Edinburgh Re- 
view, No. 22, for January 1808 . 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS . 

Postscript 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE . . . . 

Notes 

Appendix 

THE GIAOUR 

Notes 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 

Notes 



Pus^ 



13 

16 
17 
18 
ib. 

19 

20 
21 
ib. 

22 
ib. 

24 
26 

37 

38 
85 
96 

132 

143 

146 

1 56 



Page 

THE CORSAIR i5c> 

Notes . .175 

LARA 177 

Note 188 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA 189 

Notes 191 

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 192 

Notes 201 

PARISINA 202 

Notes . 207 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON .... 208 

Notes .211 

BEPPO 2i3 

Notes 220 

MAZEPPA . ib 

MANFRED 228 

Notes 241 

MARINO FALIERO 242 

Notes 

Appendix 

SARDANAPALUS ...... 

Notes 

THE TWO FOSCARI 

Appendix 

CAIN 

WERNER 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
HEAVEN AND EARTH ..... 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE . . . 

Notes 

THE ISLAND 

Appendix 

THE AGE OF BRONZE .... 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT ..... 487 

MORGANTE MAGCIORE 495 

Note 502 

WALTZ ib. 

Notes 5o5 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO 5o6 

HEBREW MELODIES. 

She walks in beauty 5 8 

The harp the monarch Minstrel swept . 509 

If that high world ib. 

The wild gazelle ib. 

Oh ! weep for those ib. 

On Jordan's banks ib. 

Jephtha's daughter ib. 

Oh! snatch' d away in beauty's bloom . 5 10 

My soul is dark ib. 

1 saw thee weep ib. 

Thy days are done ib. 

Song of Saul before his last battle ib 

Saul ib. 

« All is vanity,« saith the preacher . . 5n 



280 
281 
290 
326 
327 
354 
36i 
384 
427 
445 

457 
463 

464 

476 
480 



II 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay . 5n 

Vision of Belshazzar if,. 

Sun of the sleepless ib. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it 

to be 5 1 2 

Herod's lament for Mariamne .... U,. 
On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem 

by Titus ,7,, 

By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and 

wept ,7,. 

The destruction of Sennacherib . . . &,, 

From Job 5t3 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte . . . . 5i3 
Monody on the death of the Right Hon. R. B. 

Sheridan 5^ 

The Irish Avatar 5i5 

The Dream 5 16 

Ode (to Venice) SjS 

Lines written in an Album .... 5in 
Romance muy doloroso del sitio y toma de 

Alhama 520 

A very mournful ballad on the siege and 

conquest of Alhama ib. 

Sonetto di Virtorelli, with translation . . 522 
Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian 

Gulf • iT,. 

composed in a thunder-storm near 

mount Pindus ib. 

To*" 5 2 3 

Lines written at Athens ib. 

written beneath a picture . . . ib. 

written after swimming from Sestos to 

Abydos 524 

Zsivj /jlov, sis aya7rw — « Maid of Athens,» etc. ib. 

Translation of a Greek war song . . . ib. 

Translation of a Romaic song . . . 525 

On parting . . . ib. 

To Thyrza ib. 

Stanzas 526 

To Thyrza ib. 

Euthanasia ........ ib. 

Stanzas 527 

ib. 

On a cornelian heart which was broken . 528 

To a youthful friend ib. 

To ••♦.**•« 5 2Q 

From the Portuguese ib. 

Impromptu, in reply to a friend . . . ib. 

Address, spoken at the opening of Drury- 

lane Theatre ib. 

To Time 53o 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song . . ib. 

A Song 53i 

On being asked what a was the « origin of 

love » 16. 

Remember him, etc ib. 

Lines inscribed upon a cup formed from a 

skull ib. 

On the death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. . 532 

To a Lady weeping ib. 

From the Turkish ib. 

Sonnet to Genevra ib. 

ib. 



Page 
Inscription on the Monument of a New- 
foundland Dog 532 

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer . . . 533 

Bright be the place of thy soul . ib. 

When we two parted . . . ib. 

Stanzas for Music ib. 

534 

Fare thee Well ib. 

To*" ib. 

Ode (from the French) 535 

From the French 536 

On the Star of the Legion of Honour (from 

the French) ib. 

Napoleon's Farewell (from the French) . 537 

Sonnet ib. 

Written on a blank leaf of « The Pleasures 

of Memory » ib. 

Stanzas to *** . ib. 

Darkness 538 

Churchill's Grave ib. 

Prometheus 53o 

Ode (to France) ib. 

Windsor Poetics 540 

A Sketch from Private Life .... ib. 

Carmina Byronis in C. Elgin . . .541 

Lines to Mr Moore ....... ib. 

« On this Day I complete my Thirty-sixth Year» ib. 

LETTER TO **" c ON BOWLES'S STRIC- 
TURES ON POPE 542 

A FRAGMENT 55 2 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES 

DON JUAN . . . . 

Notes . 



553 

56i 
704 



ADDENDA, or Appendix to the « MISCELLA- 
NEOUS POEMS. » 

Hints from Horace 711 

The Blues, a Literary Eclogue . . . 720 
Part of « Manfred," taken from the original 

copy of that Drama ..... 725 

Francesca of Rimini 726 

The Prayer of Nature 727 

To my Son ib. 

From the Portuguese ib. 

To a Friend — L'Amitie est l'amour sans ailes 728 

Fragment ib. 

Imitation of Tibullus ib. 

On revisiting Harrow 729 

Fragment ib. 

To Mrs •*■ ib. 

A Love-Song ib- 

Stanzas to ****** ib' 

To the same 730 

Song ib % 

Fragment ib. 

Epitaph on John Adams ib. 

Stanzas to ***, on leaving England . . .731 

Lines to Mr Hodgson ib. 

Epistle to 732 

Stanzas for Music ...... ib. 

The Devil's Drive 733 

Translation from Horace 734 

Address intended to be recited at the Cale- 
donian Meeting ib. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Lines intended for the opening of « The 

Siege of Corinth>» 734 

Extract from an unpublished poem . . 735 

To Augusta ib. 

Lines on the Picture of Sarah, Countess of 

Jersey 736 

On the Bust of Helen by Canova . . . ib. 

Sonnet to George the Fourth .... 737 

To Belshazzar ib. 

Stanzas written on the road from Florence 

to Pisa ib. 

To the Countess of Blessington . . . ib. 

Epitaph on himself . ib. 

Sportive Epistles to Mr J. Murray . . . 738 
Bhyming Letter, supposed to be written by 

3Ir Murray 739 

Poetical Fragments, addressed to Mr Moore ib. 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems .... 740 

To Lord Thurlow ib. 

On Moore's last operatic Farce . . . 741 
Paraphrase from the opening lines of the 

Medea of Euripides ib. 

Fragment of a Poem on hearing that Lady 

Byron was ill ib. 

Song of the Luddites ib. 

On Napoleon's Escape from Elba . . . ib. 
Lord Byron's Idea of Politics .... ib. 
Stanzas, written when about to join the Ita- 
lian Carbonari ib. 

Lines on the Birth of John W. R. Hoppner . ib. 

To Jessy 742 

Endorsement for the Deed of Separation 

from Lady Byron ib. 

To Mr Moore ib. 

To Penelope ib. 

The Charity Ball ib. 

John Keats ib. 

Epitaph for William Pitt ib. 

— '■ on Lord Castlereagh .... ib. 

On some brother Poets ib. 

Impromptu 743 

Rhymes if,. 

Noble Authors ib. 

On Sir John Carr, the Traveller . . . ib. 

On an Old Lady ... . . . ib. 

Parody on Dr Busby's Monologue . . ib. 

Lines written in an Album at Athens . . ib. 

To my Dear Mary Anne ib. 

Verses— « Remember thee!» .... 744 

Fame, Wisdom, Love, and Power . . . ib. 

Lines adapted to an Indian Air ... ib. 

Enigma on the letter H ib. 

on the letter I ib. 

Epigram from Martial 745 

from the French of Rulhieres . . ib. 

on Egle the Poetess .... ib. 

to Mr Hobhouse ib. 

on Paine and Cobbett . . . ib. 

on the Brasiers' Address to Queen 

Caroline fo m 

on my Thirty-third Birth-day . . ib. 



Page 

To Memory 745 

Lines found in the Traveller's book at Cha- 

mouni ib. 

Stanzas to her who can best understand them 74S 

Lines addressed to a beautiful Quakeress . ib. 

Hebrew Melodies 747 

Adieu to Malta ib. 

Song— «DrNott» 748 

Stanzas in Childe Harold ib. 

To Mr Hobhouse, on his Imprisonment in 

Newgate 749 

On a distant View of Harrow ou the Hill . ib. 

ToD ib. 

Reply to some Verses of J.M. B. Pigot, Esq. . 750 

To the sighing Strephon ib. 

To Miss ib. 

Lines written in « Letters of an Italian Nun,» 

etc 751 

The Cornelian ib. 

On the death of a Young Lady, cousin to the 

Author ib. 

To Emma ib. 

To M.S. G 752 

To Caroline ib. 



To Leshia ib. 

The First Kiss of Love ib. 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady . . . 754 

To a Lady ib. 

Love's Last Adieu t55 

On a change of Masters at a great public 

School ib. 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 

Friend ib. 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, written by 

Montgomery 756 

To the Rev. J. T. Becher ..... ' ib. 
To a young Friend, the son of one of his 

Tenants at Newstead ib. 

Childish Recollections 757 

Additional Stanzas to the Ode to Napoleon 

Buonaparte 761 

ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 

To my Infant Daughter, on the morning of 



her Birth 


. . 762 


To Lady Caroline Lamb 


. . ib. 


The Prince of Whales . . . . 


. . 763 


To the Lilv of France 


. . ib. 


Madame Lavalette . 


■ ■ 7H 




ib. 


Ode to St Helena 


. . ib. 



APPENDIX. 

Preface to the « Hours of Idleness » . . 767 

Preface to the « Vision of Judgment » . . ib. 

Various Excerpts, etc. . . ... 767 

Remarks of Lord Byron on several Passages 

of « English Bards and Scotch Reviewers » 768 



BY J. W. LAKE. 



O'er the harp, from earliest years beloved, 
He threw his fingers hurriedly, and tones 
Of melancholy beauty died away 
Upon its strings of sweetness. 



Ir was reserved for the present age to produce 
one distinguished example of the Muse having 
descended upon a hard of a wounded spirit, and 
lent her lyre to tell afflictions of no ordinary de- 
scription — afflictions originating probahly in that 
singular combination of feeling with imagination 
which has been called the poetical temperament, 
and which has so often saddened the days of those 
onwhomithasbeen conferred. If ever a man was 
entitled to lay claim to that character in all its 
strength and all its weakness, with its unbounded 
range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility 
of pleasure and of pain, that man was Lord Byron. 
Nor does it require much time or a deep acquaint- 
ance with human nature to discover why these 
extraordinary powers should in so many cases 
have contributed more to the wretchedness than 
to the happiness of their possessor. 

The "imagination all compact- which the 
greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as the 
distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every 
case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, 
our expectations, and can often bid its possessor 
hope, where hope is lost to reason ; but the delu- 
sive pleasure arising from these visions of ima- 
gination resembles that of a child whose gaze is 
attracted by a fragment of glass to which a 
sunbeam has given momentary splendour : he 
hastens to the spot with breathless impatience, 
and finds the object of his wonder and expec- 
tation equally vulgar and worthless. Such is 
the man of quick and exalted powers of imagi- 
nation : his fancy over-estimates the object of his 
wishes; and pleasure, fame, distinction, are alter- 
nately pursued, attained, and despised when in 
his power. Like the enchanted fruit in the 
palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration 
lose their attraction and value as soon as they are 
grasped by the adventurers hand; and all that 
remains is regret for the time lost in the pursuit, 
and wonder at the hallucination under the 
influence of which it was undertaken. The dis- 
proportion between hope and possession which is 
felt by all men, is thus doubled to those whom 
nature has endowed with the power of gilding a 
distant prospect with the rays of imagination. 



We think that many points of resemblance 
may be traced between Byron and Rousseau. 
Both are distinguished by the most ardent and 
vivid delineation of intense conception, and by 
a deep sensibility of passion rather than of af- 
fection. Both, too, by this double power, have 
held a dominion over the sympathy of their 
readers, far beyond the range of those ordinary 
feelings which are excited by the mere efforts of 
genius. The impression of this interest still 
accompanies the perusal of their writings; but 
there is another interest, of more lasting and far 
stronger power, which each of them possessed, — 
the continual embodying of the individual cha- 
racter, it might almost be said of the very person, 
of the writer. When we speak or think of Rous- 
seau or Byron, we are not conscious of speaking 
or thinking of an author : we have a vague but 
impassioned remembrance of men of surpassing 
genius, eloquence, and power, — of prodigious 
capacity both of misery and happiness : we feel 
as if we had transiently met such beings in real 
life, or had known them in the obscure commu- 
nion of a dream. Each of their works presents, 
in succession, a fresh idea of themselves; and, 
while the productions of other great men stand 
out from them, like something they have created, 
theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures, busts 
of their living selves, — clothed, no doubt, at dif- 
ferent times in different drapery, and prominent 
from a different back-ground, — but still impressed 
with the same form, and mien, and lineaments, 
and not to be mistaken for the representations of 
any other of the children of men. 

But this view of the subject, though universally 
felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a little ex- 
planation. The personal character to which we 
allude, is not altogether that on which the seal of 
life has been set, and to which, therefore, moral 
approval or condemnation is necessarily annexed, 
as to the language or conduct of actual existence : 
it is the character, so to speak, which is prior to 
conduct, and yet open to good and to ill — the con- 
stitution of the being in body and in soul. Each 
of these illustrious writers has, in this light, filled 
his works with expressions of his own character, 



VI 



LIFE OF LORD 15 Y HON. 



— lias unveiled to the world the secrets of his own 
being- They have gone down into those depths 

which every man may sound for himself, though 
not for another; and they have made disclosures 
to the world of what they beheld and knew there 

— disclosures that have excited a profound and 
universal sympathy, by proving that all mankind, 
the troubled and the untroubled, the lofty and 
the low, the strongest and the weakest, are linked 
together by the bonds of a common but inscrutable 
nature. 

Thus, each of these wayward and richly-gifted 
spirits made himself the object of profound in- 
terest to the world, and that too during periods 
of society when ample food was every where 
spread abroad for the meditation and passions of 
men. 

Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and 
birth, a close resemblance in their passions and 
their genius may be traced too between Byron 
and Robert Burns. Their careers were short and 
glorious, and they both perished in the « rich 
summer of their life and song,» and in all the 
splendour of a reputation more likely to increase 
than diminish. One was a peasant, and the other 
a peer; but nature is a great leveller, and makes 
amends for the injuries of fortune by the richness 
of her benefactions : the genius of Burns raised 
him to a level with the nobles of the land; by 
nature, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. 
They both distinguished themselves by the force 
of their genius, and fell by the strength of their 
passions; one wrote from a love, and the other 
from a scorn of mankind; and both sung of the 
emotions of their own hearts with a vehemence 
and an originality which few have equalled, and 
none have surpassed. 

The versatility of authors who have been able 
to draw and support characters as different from 
each other as from their own, has given to their 
productions the inexpressible charm of variety, 
and has often secured them from that neglect 
which in general attends what is technically called 
mannerism. But it was reserved for Lord Byron 
(previous to his Don Juan) to present the same 
character on the public stage again and again, 
varied only by the exertions of that powerful 
genius which, searching the springs of passion and 
of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew how 
to combine their operations, so that the interest 
was eternally varying, and never abated, although 
the most important person of the drama retained 
the same lineaments. 

It might, at first, seem that his undisguised 
revelation of feelings and passions, which the 
becoming pride of human nature, jealous of its 
own dignity, would in general desire to hold in 
uuviolated silence, could have produced in the 



public mind only pity, sorrow, or repugnance. 
But in the case of men of real genius, like Byron, 
it is otherwise: they are not felt, while we read, 
as declarations published to the world, but 
almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears. Who 
is there that feels for a moment, that the voice 
which reaches the inmost recesses of his heart 
is speaking to the careless multitudes around 
him? Or if we do so remember, the words seem 
to pass by others like air, and to find their way 
to the hearts for whom they were intended — 
kindred and sympathetic spirits, who discern 
and own that secret language, of which the 
privacy is not violated, though spoken in the 
hearing of the uninitiated, because it is not un- 
derstood. A great poet may address the whole 
world in the language of intensest passion, con- 
cerning objects of which, rather than speak face 
to face with any one human being, he would 
perish in his misery. For it is in solitude that 
he utters what is to be wafted by all the winds of 
heaven: there are present with him during his 
inspiration only the shadows of men. He is not 
daunted, or perplexed, or disturbed, or repelled 
by real, living, breathing features. He can draw 
just as much of the curtain as he chuses that hangs 
between his own solitude and the world of life. 
He there pours his soul out partly to himself alone, 
partly to the ideal abstractions and impersonated 
images that float around him at his own conjura- 
tion; and partly to human beings like himself, 
moving in the every-day world. He confesses 
himself, not before men, but before the spirit of 
humanity; and he thus fearlessly lays open his 
heart, assured that nature never prompted to 
genius what will not triumphantly force its way 
into the human heart. 

It is admitted that Byron has depicted much of 
himself in all his heroes ; but when we seem to 
see the poet shadowed out in all those states of 
disordered being which his Childe Harolds, 
Giaours, Conrads, Laras, and Alps exhibit, we 
merely conceive that his mind felt within itself 
the capacity of such disorders, not that it had 
endured them, and exhibits itself before us only 
in possibility. This is not common, it is rare in 
great poets : Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton 
never so exhibit themselves in the characters they 
portray : their poetical personages have no re- 
ference to themselves, but are distinct, indepen- 
dent creatures of their minds, produced in the 
full freedom of intellectual power. In Byron 
there does not seem this freedom of power — there 
is little appropriation of character to events. His 
poems, excepting Don Juan, are not full and 
complete narrations of any one definite story, 
containing within itself a picture of human life. 
They are merely bold and turbulent exemplifi- 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



cations of certain sweeping energies and irre- 
sistible passions; they are fragments of a poet's 
dark dream of life. The very personages, vi- 
vidly as they are pictured, are yet felt to be 
fictitious, and derive their chief power over us 
from their supposed connexion with the poet 
himself, and, it may be, with each other. The 
law of his mind was to embody his peculiar 
feelings under the forms of other men. In all 
his heroes we recognise, though with infinite 
modifications, the same great characteristics : a 
lofty conception of the power of mind, — an 
intense sensibility of passion, — an almost bound- 
less capacity of tumultuous emotion, — a boast- 
ing admiration of the grandeur of disordered 
power, and, above all, a soul-felt delight in 
beauty. 

These reflections naturally precede a sketch of 
Lord Byron's literary and private life : they are 
in a manner forced upon us by his poetry, and by 
the sentiments of weariness of existence and en- 
mity with the world which it so frequently ex- 
presses. 

Lord Byron was descended from an illustrious 
line of ancestry. From the period of the Con- 
cpiest, his family were not more distinguished for 
their extensive manors in Lancashire and other 
parts of the kingdom, than for their prowess in 
arms. John de Byron attended Edward the first 
in several warlike expeditions. Two of the 
Byrons fell at the battle of Cressy. Another 
member of the family, Sir John de Byron, ren- 
dered good ser\ice in Bosworth field, to the Earl 
of Richmond, and contributed by his valour to 
transfer the crown from the head of Richard the 
third to that of Henry the seventh. Sir John 
was a man of honour, as well as a brave warrior. 
He was very intimate with his neighbour Sir 
Gervase Cliftou ; and, although Byron fought 
under Henry, and Clifton under Richard, it did 
not diminish their friendship, though it put it to 
a severe test. Previous to the battle, they had 
mutually promised that whichever shouldbevan- 
([uished, the other should endeavour to prevent the 
forfeiture of his friend's estate. While Clifton was 
bravely fighting at the head of his troop, he was 
struck off his horse : Byron perceiving the acci- 
dent, quitted the ranks and ran to the relief of 
his friend, who died in his arms. Sir John de 
Byron kept his word; he interceded with the 
king ; and the estate, preserved to the Clifton 
family, is now iu the possession of a descendant 
of Sir Gervase. 

In the wars between Charles the first and the 
parliament, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. 
Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest brother and repre- 
sentative of the family, was an eminent loyalist, 
who, having distinguished himself in the wars of 



the Low Countries, was appointed governor of 
Chelsea, in 1642. He had two sons, who both 
died without issue ; and his younger brother, Sir 
John, became heir. This person was made a 
knight of the bath at the coronation of James 
the first. He had eleven sons, most of whom 
distinguished themselves by their loyalty and 
gallantry on the side of Charles the first. Seven 
of these brothers were engaged at the bade of 
Marston-moor, and four fell in defence of the 
royal cause. Sir John Byron, one of the survi- 
vors, was appointed to several important com- 
mands, and on the 26th of October, 1643, was 
created Lord Byron, with a collateral remainder 
to his brothers. On the decline of the king's 
affairs, he was appointed governor to the Duke of 
York, and, while holding this office, died without 
issue, in France, in \6Si ; upon which his bro- 
ther Richard, a celebrated cavalier, became the 
second Lord Byron. He was governor of Appleby 
Castle, and distinguished himself at Newark. He 
died in 1 697, aged seventy-four, and was succeeded 
by his eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, 
the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of the 
kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five sons, 
all of whom died young except William, whose 
eldest son, William, was born in 1722, and came 
to the title iu 1736. 

William, Lord Byron, passed the early part of 
his life in the navy. Iu 1763 he was made mas- 
ter of the stag-hounds; and in 1765 was sent to 
the Tower, and tried before the House of Peers 
for killing his relation and neighbour, Mr Cha- 
worth, in a duel. — The following details of this 
fatal event are peculiarly interesting from subse- 
quent circumstances connected with the subject of 
our sketch. 

William Lord Byron belonged to a club of 
which Mr Chaworth was also a member. It 
met at the Star and Garter tavern, Pall Mall, 
and was called the Nottinghamshire Club. On the 
29th January, 1765, they assembled, at four 
o'clock, to dinner as usual, and everything went 
on agreeably, until about seven o'clock, when an 
angry dispute arising betwixt Lord Byron and 
Mr Chaworth concerning the quantity of game 
on their estates, the latter gentleman paid his 
share of the bill, and retired. Lord Byron fol- 
lowed him out of the room, and, stopping him 
on the lauding of the stairs, called to the waiter 
to show them into an empty room. They were 
shown into one, and a single candle placed on 
the table : in a few minutes the bell was rung, 
and Mr Chaworth found mortally wounded. He 
said that Lord Byron and he entered the room 
together ; that his lordship, in walking forward, 
said something relative to the former dispute, on 
which he proposed fastening the door ; that on 



\ 111 



LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. 



turning himself round from this act, he perceived 
his lordship with his sword half drawn, or nearly 
so : on which, knowing his man, he instantly drew 
his own, and made a thrust at him, which he 
thought had wounded or killed him; that then, 
perceiving his lordshipshorten his sword to return 
the thrust, he thought to have parried it with his 
left hand ; that he felt the sword enter his body 
and go deep through his back; that he struggled, 
and being the stronger man, disarmed his lord- 
ship, and expressed some concern, as under the 
apprehension of having mortally wounded him; 
that Lord Byron replied by saying something to 
the like effect, adding at the same time, that he 
hoped «he would now allow him to be as brave 
a man as any in the kingdom." 

For this offence he was unanimously convicted 
of manslaughter, but, on being brought up for 
judgment, pleaded his privilege as a peer, and 
was, in consequence, discharged. After this affair 
he was abandoned by his relatious, and retired 
to Newstead Abbey; where, while he lived in a 
state of exile from persons of his own rank, his 
unhappy temper found abundant exercise in con- 
tinual war with his neighbours and tenants, and 
sufficient punishment in their hatred. One of 
his amusements was feeding crickets, which he 
rendered so tame as to crawl over him, and 
used to whip them with a wisp of straw when 
too familiar. In this forlorn condition he lin- 
gered out a long life, doing all in his power to 
ruin the paternal mansion for that other branch 
of the family to which he was aware it must pass 
at his death, all his own children having descended 
before him to the grave. 

John, the next brother to William, and born 
in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a 
very different disposition, but his career in life 
was almost an unbroken series of misfortuues. 
The hardships he endured while accompanying 
Commodore Auson in his expedition to the South 
Seas are w r ell known, from his own highly popu- 
lar and affecting narrative. His only son, born 
in 1751, who received an excellent education, 
and held a commission in the guards, was so 
dissipated that he was known by the name of 
« mad Jack Byron. » He was one of the hand- 
somest men of his time ; but his character was so 
notorious that his father was obliged to desert 
him, and his company was shunned by the better 
part of society. In his twenty-seventh year he se- 
duced the Marchioness of Carmarthen, who had 
been but a few years married to a husband, with 
whom she lived in the greatest happiness until the 
commencement of this unfortunate connexion. 
Altera fruitless attempt atreclaiming his lady, the 
marquis obtained a divorce; and a marriage was 
brought about between her and her seducer, which, 



after the most brutal conduct on his part, and the 
greatest misery and keenest remorse on hers, was 
dissolved in two years by her sinking to the 
grave, the victim of a broken heart. About three 
years subsequently, Captain Byron sought to 
recruit his fortune by matrimony, and having 
made a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an 
Aberdeenshire heiress (lineally descended from 
the Earl of Huntle\ and the Princess Jane, daugh- 
ter of James II of Scotland), he united himself to 
her, ran through her property in a few years, 
and, leaving her and her only child, the subject 
of this memoir, fled to France to avoid his cre- 
ditors, and died at Valenciennes, in 1791. 

In Captain Medwin's « Conversations of Lord 
Byron,» the following expressions are said to have 
fallen from his lordship on the subject of his 
unprincipled father: — 

« I lost my father when I was only six years 
of age. My mother, when she was in a rage 
with me (and I gave her cause enough), used to 
say, 'Ah! you little dog, you are a Byron all 
over; you are as bad as your father !' It was very 
different from Mrs Malaprop's saying, 'Ah ! good 
dear Mr Malaprop! I never loved him till he was 
dead.' But, iu fact, my father was, in his youth, 
any thing but a ' Caelebs in search of a wife.' He 
would have made a bad hero for Hannah More. 
He ran out three fortunes, and married or ran 
away with three women ; and once wanted a gui- 
nea, that he wrote for : I have the note. He 
seemed born for his own ruin, and that of the 
other sex. He began by seducing Lady Carmar- 
then, and spent for her four thousand pounds a- 
year; and, not content with one adventure of 
this kind, afterwards eloped with Miss Gordon. 
This marriage was not destined to be a very for- 
tunate one either, and I don't wonder at her 
differing from Sheridan's w 7 idow in the play; 
they certainly could not have claimed 'the flitch.'» 

George Byron Gordon (for so he was called on 
account of the neglect his father's family had 
shown to his mother ) was born at Dover, on the 
2 2d of January, 1788. On the flight of his 
father, the entire care of his infaut years de- 
volved upon his mother, who retired to Aberdeen, 
where she lived iu almost perfect seclusion, on 
the remains of her fortune. Her undivided af- 
fection was naturally centred in her son : if he 
only went out for the purpose of walking she 
would entreat him, with the tear glistening 
in her eye, to take care of himself, as « she 
had nothing on earth but him to live for;» — a 
conduct no tat all pleasing to his ad venturous spirit, 
the more especially as such of his companions, 
as witnessed these affectionate scenes, were wont 
to laugh at and ridicule him about them. Her 
excessive maternal indulgence, and the absence of 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



IX 



that sslatary discipline and control so necessary to 
childhood, doubtless contributed to the formation 
of the less pleasing features of Lord Byron's cha- 
racter. It must, however, be remembered in Mrs By- 
ron's extenuation , not only that the circumstances 
in which she had been left with her son were of a 
very peculiar nature, but also that a slight mal- 
formation of one of his feet, and great weakness 
of constitution, naturally obtained for him in the 
heart of a mother a more than ordinary portion 
of tenderness. For these latter reasons he was 
not sent very early to school, but was allowed to 
expand his lungs, and brace his limbs, upon the 
neighbouring mountains. This was evidently 
the most judicious method of imparting strength 
to his bodily frame ; and the sequel showed that 
it was not the worst for giving tone and vigour 
to his mind. The savage grandeur of nature 
around him ; the feeling that he was upon hills 
where 

Foreign tyrant never trod, 
But Freedom, with her faulehion bright, 
Swept the stranger from her sight; 

his intercourse with a people whose chief amuse- 
ment consisted in the recital of heroic tales of 
other times, feats of strength, and a display of 
independence, blended with the wild superna- 
tural fictions peculiar to remote and thinly-peo- 
pled districts, were admirably calculated to foster 
that poetical feeling innate in his character. 

When George was seven years of age, his mo- 
ther sent him to the grammar-school at Aber- 
deen, where he remained till his removal to 
Harrow, with the exception of some intervals of 
absence, which were deemed requisite for the 
preservation of his health. His progress beyond 
that of the general run of his class-fellows was 
never so remarkable as after those occasional in- 
tervals of recreation, when, in a few da>*s he 
would master exercises which, in the ordinary 
school routine, it had required weeks to accom- 
plish. But when he had overtaken the rest of 
the class, he always relaxed his exertions, and, 
contenting himself with being considered a to- 
lerable scholar, never made any extraordinary 
effort to place himself at the head of the highest 
form. It was only out of school that he aspired 
to be the leader of everything; in all boyish 
games and amusements he would be first if pos- 
sible. For this he was eminently calculated; 
quick, enterprising, and daring, the energy of 
his mind enabled him to overcome the impedi- 
ments which nature had thrown in his way. Even 
at that early period ( from eight to ten years of 
age), all his sports were of a manly character; 
fishing, shooting, swimming, managing a horse, 
or steering and trimming the sails of a boat, con- 



stituted his chief delight, and, to the superficial 
observer, seemed his sole occupation. 

He was exceedingly brave, and in the juvenile 
wars of the school, he generally gained the vic- 
tory. Upon one occasion, a boy pursued by an- 
other took refuge in Mrs Byron's house : the 
latter youth, who had been much abused by the 
former, proceeded to take vengeance on him on 
the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, 
when George interposed in his defence, declaring 
that nobody should be ill-used while under his 
roof and protection. Upon this the aggressor 
dared him to fight, and, although the former 
was by much the stronger of the two, the spirit 
of young Byron was so determined, that after 
the combat had lasted nearly two hours, it was 
suspended only in consequence of their com- 
plete exhaustion. 

A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small 
Shetland pony, which his father had bought for 
him: they went one day to the banks of the Don 
to bathe, but, having only the pony, they were 
obliged to follow the good old practice called 
in Scotland « ride and tie.» When they came to 
the bridge over thatdark romantic stream, Byron 
bethought him of the prophecy which he has 
quoted in Don Juan : 

Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa' ; 
Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's ae foal, 
Doun ye shall fa. 

He immediately stopped his companion, who was 
riding, and asked him if he remembered the 
prophecy, saying, that as they were both only 
sons, and as the pony might be « a mare's ae foal,» 
he would ride over first, because he had only a 
mother to lament him, should the prophecy be 
fulfilled by the falling of the bridge; wheras the 
other had both a father and a mother. 

It is the custom of the grammar-school at Aber- 
deen , that the boys of all the five classes of 
which it is composed should be assembled for 
prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in 
the morning; after prayers, a censor calls over 
the names, and those who are absent are pun- 
ished. The first time that Lord Byron had come 
to school after his accession to his title, the rector 
had caused his name to be inserted in the censor's 
book, Georgius Dominus de Byron, instead of 
Georgius Byron Gordon as formerly. The boys, 
unaccustomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a 
loud and involuntary shout, which had such an 
effect on his sensiti e mind that he burst into 
tears, and would have fled from the school had 
he not been restrained by the master. 

The answer which Lord Byron made to a fellow 
scholar, who questioned him as to the cause of 
the honorary addition of « Dominus de Byron » 



\ 



LIFE OF LOUD JJYllON. 



to his name, served at that time, when he was 
only ten years of aye, to point out that he would 
be a man who would speak and act for himself 
— who, whatever might he his vices or his virtues, 
would not condescend to receive them at second- 
hand. It took place the very day after he had 
heen menaced with a flogging round the school 
for a fault which he had not committed. When 
the question was put to him, he replied, « It is 
not my doing ; Fortune was to whip me yesterday 
for what another did, and she has this day made 
me a lord for what another has ceased to do. 1 
need not thank her in either case, for I have 
asked nothing at her hands." 

On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fifth 
Ford Byron, departed this life at Newstead. The 
son of this eccentric nohleman died when 
George was five years old, and as the descent 
hoth of the titles and estates was to heirs-male, 
the latter, of course, succeeded his great-uncle. 
Upon this change of fortune Lord Byron, now 
ten years of age, was removed from the imme- 
diate care of his mother, and placed as a ward 
under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle, 
whose father had married Isabella, the sister of 
the preceding Lord Byron. In one or two points 
of character this great-aunt resembled the bard: 
she also wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorn- 
ing the gay and fashionable world for many- 
years, she left it without any apparent cause and 
with perfect indifference, and in a great measure 
secluded herself from society. 

The young nobleman's guardian decided that 

he should receive the usual education given to 

England's titled sons, and that he should in the 

first instance be sent to the public school at 

Harrow. He was accordingly placed there under 

the tuition of the Be v. Dr Drury, to whom he 

has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth 

canto of Childe Harold, in a manner which does 

I equal honour to the tutor and the pupil. A 

j change of scene and circumstances so rapid, 

{ would have been hazardous to any boy, but 

j it was doubly so to one of Byron's ardent mind 

J and previous habits. Taken at once from the 

j society of boys in ordinary life, and placed 

j among youths of his own newly-acquired rank, 

j with means of gratification which to him must 

! have appeared considerable, it is by no means 

surprising that he should have been betrayed 

into every sort of extravagance : none of them 

appear, however, to have been of a very culpable 

nature. 

« Though he was lame,» says one of his school- 
fellows, « he was a great lover of sports, and 
preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even 
Helicon for 'duck-puddle,' and gave up the best 
poet that ever wrote hard Latin for a game of 



cricket on the common. He was not remarkable 
(nor was he ever) for his learning, but he was 
always a clever, plain-spoken, and undaunted 
hoy. I have seen him fight by the hour like a 
Trojan, and stand up against the disadvantage 
of his lameness with all the spirit of an ancient 
combatant. ' Don't you remember your battle 
with Pitt?' (a brewer's son), said I to him in a 
letter (for I had witnessed it), but it seems that 
he had forgotten it. 'You are mistaken, 1 think,' 
said he in reply ; ' it must have been with Bice- 
Pudding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the 
Douglasses, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with 
whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore 
(the clod), or with somebody else, and not with 
Pitt; for with all the above-named and other 
worthies of the fist had I an interchange of black 
eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry 
periods ; however it may have happened for all 
that.'.. 

The annexed anecdotes are characteristic. 

The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in 
their wisdom resolved to set fire to the scene of 
all their ills and troubles — the school-room. 
Byron, however, was against the motiou, and 
by pointing out to the young rebels the names of 
their fathers on the walls, he prevented the in- 
tended conflagration. His lordship piqued himself 
not a little upon this early specimen of his power 
over the passions of his school- fellows. 

Byron long retained a friendship for several 
of his Harrow school-comrades. Lord Clare was 
one of his constant correspondents; and Scroope 
Davies was also one of his chief companions be- 
fore his lordship went to the continent. The 
latter gentleman and Byron once lost all their 
money at « chicken hazard,., in one of the hells 
of St. James's, and the next morning Davies sent 
for Byrou's pistols to shoot himself with. Byron 
sent a note refusing to give them, on the ground 
that they would be forfeited as a deodaud, and 
this comic excuse had the desired effect. 

Byron, whilst living at Newstead during the 
Harrow vacation, saw and became enamoured of 
Miss Chaworth, the Mary of his poetry, and the 
maiden of his beautiful « Dream. » Miss Cha- 
worth was older than his lordship by a few years, 
was light and volatile, and though, no doubt, 
highly flattered by his attachment, treated our 
poet less as an ardent lover than as a younger 
brother. She was punctual to their assignations, 
which took place at a gate dividing the grounds 
of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and received 
all his letters; but her answers, it is said, were 
written with more of the caution of coquetry 
than the romance of « love's young dream. » She, 
however, gave him her picture, but her hand 
was reserved for another. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron 
and Miss Chaworth should both have been under 
the guardianship of Mr White. This gentleman 
particularly wished that his wards should be 
united in marriage ; but Miss C, as young ladies 
generally do in such circumstances, differed from 
him, and was resolved to please herself in the 
choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr M., com- 
monly known by the name of Jack M., was at 
this time quite the rage, and Miss C. was not 
subtle enough to conceal the penchant she had 
for him : it was in vain that Mr W. took her 
from one watering-place to another; still the 
lover, like an evil spirit, followed; and at last, 
being somehow more persuasive than the « child 
of song,» he carried off the lady, to the great grief 
of Lord Byron. The marriage, however, was 
not a happy one, the parties soon separated; 
and Mrs M. afterwards proposed an interview 
with her former lover, which, by the advice of 
his sister, he declined. 

From Harrow Lord Byron was removed to 
Trinity College, Cambridge : there, however, he 
did not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of 
antiquity in higher esteem than when under the 
command of his reverend tutor at Harrow. He 
was above studying the poets, and held the rules 
of the Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after life 
he did the « invariable principles » of the Bev. 
Mr Bowles. Beading after the fashion of the stu- 
dious men of Cam was to him a bore, and he 
held a senior wrangler in the greatest contempt. 
Persons of real genius are seldom candidates for 
college prizes, and Byron left them to those plod- 
ding characters who, perhaps, deserve them, as 
the guerdon of the unceasing labour necessary to 
overcome the all but invincible dulness of their 
intellects. Instead of reading what tutors pleased, 
Byron read what pleased himself, and wrote 
what could not fail to displease those connected 
with the university. He did not admire their 
system of education, and they, as is the case with 
most scholars, could admire no other. He took to 
quizzing them, and, as no one likes to be laughed 
at, doctors frowned, fellows fumed, and Byron 
at the age of nineteen left college without a de- 
gree. 

Among other means which he adopted to show 
his contempt for academical honours, he kept a 
young bear in his room for some time, which he 
told all his friends was in training for a fellow- 
ship ! 

Wheu Lord Byron bade adieu to the university, 
he took up his residence at Newstead Abbey, 
where his pursuits were principally those of 
amusement. Among others he was extremely fond 
of the water. In his aquatic exercises he had 
seldom any other companion than a large New- 



foundland dog, to try whose sagacity and fidelity 
he used to let himself fall out of the boat, as if 
by accidenf, when the dog would seize him, and 
drag him ashore. On losing this dog, in the 
autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be 
erected, with an inscription commemorative of 
its attachment. (See page 532.) 

The following descriptions of Newstead will be 
found interesting: 

« This abbey was founded in the year 1 170, by 
Henry II, as a priory of Black Canons, and dedi- 
cated to the Virgin Mary. It continued in the 
family of the Byrons until the time of our 
poet, who sold it first to Mr Claughton for the 
sum of i4o,oool., and on that gentleman's not 
being able to fulfil the agreement, and paying 
2o,oool. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to 
another person, and most of the money vested in 
trustees for the jointure of the Hon. Mrs Byron. 
The greater part of the edifice still remains. The 
present possessor, Major Wildman, is, with ge- 
nuine taste, repairing this beautiful specimen of 
Gothic architecture. The late Lord Byron repair- 
ed a considerable part of it; but, forgetting the 
roof, he turned his attention to the inside, and 
the consequence was that, in a few years, the 
rain penetrating to the apartments, soon destroy- 
ed all those elegant devices which his lordship 
contrived. Lord Byron's own study was a neat 
little apartment, decorated with some good classic 
busts, a select collection of books, an antique 
cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, at the end of 
the room, two finely polished skulls on a pair of 
light fancy stands. In the garden, likewise, 
there was a great number of these skulls, taken 
from the burial-ground of the abbey, and piled 
up together; but they were afterwards recom- 
mitted to the earth. A writer, who visited it 
soon after Lord Byron had sold it, says: « In one 
corner of the servant's hall lay a stone coffin, in 
which were fencing-gloves and foils, and on the 
walls of the ample but cheerless kitchen was 
painted in large letters, < Waste not— want not., 
During the minority of Lord Byron, the abbey 

was in the possession of Lord G , his hounds, 

and divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and 
starlings. The internal traces of this Goth were 
swept away; but without, all appeared as rude 
and unreclaimed as he could have left it. W T ith 
the exception of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous 
and elegant object, I do not recollect the slight- 
est trace of culture or improvement. The late 
lord, astern and desperate character, who is never 
mentioned by the neighbouring peasants without 
a significant shake of the head, might have re- 
turned and recognized every thing about him, 
except, perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. 
There still slept that old pond, into which he is 



XI 1 



LIFE OF LOK1) BYRON. 



said to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of 
fury, whence she was rescued hy the gardener, a 
courageous blade, who was his lords master, and 
chastised him for his barbarity. There still, at 
the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, two 
towering satyrs, he with his goat and cluh, and 
Mrs Satyr with her chuhhy cloven-footed brat, 
placed on pedestals at the intersections of the 
narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a mo- 
ment with their grim visages, and silent shaggy 
forms, the fear into your bosom which is felt by 
the neighbouring peasantry at ' th'oud laird's 
devils.' I have frequently asked the country 
people near Newstead, what sort of a man his 
lordship (our Lord Byron) was. The impression 
of his eccentric but energetic character was evi- 
dent in the reply, ' He's the devil of a fellow 
for comical fancies. He flogs th'oud laird to no- 
thing; but he' s a hearty good fellow for all 
that.'.. 

Walpole, who had visited Newstead, gives, in 
his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the following 
account of it : 

« As I returned I saw Newstead and Althorp; 



I like both. The former is the vi 



abbe 



The 



great east window of the church remains, and 
connects with the house; the hall entire, the 
refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the 
ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms 
on it: it has a private chapel quite perfect. The 
park, which is still charming, has not been so 
much unprofaned. The present lord has lost 
large sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thou- 
sand pounds worth of which have been cut near 
the house. En revanche, he has built two baby 
forts, to pay his country in castles for damage 
done to the navy, and planted a handful of Scotch 
firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old fa- 
mily liveries for a public day. In the hall is a 
very good collection of pictures, all animals. The 
refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full of 
Byrons : the vaulted roof remaining, but the win- 
dows have new dresses making for them by a Ve- 
netian tailor... 

The following detailed description of Byron's 
paternal abode is extracted from « A Visit to 
Newstead Abbey, in 1828," in the London Lite- 
rary Gazette : — 

« It was on the noon of a cold, bleak day in 
February, that I set out to visit the memorable 
Abbey of Newstead, once the property and abode 
of the immortal Byron. The gloomy state of the 
weather, and the dreary aspect of the surround- 
ing country, produced impressions more appro- 
priate to the view of such a spot than the cheerful 
season and scenery of summer. The estate lies 
on the left hand side of the high north road, eight 
miles beyond Nottingham; but, as I approached 



the place, I looked in vain for some indication 
of the Abbey. Nothing is seen but a thick 
plantation of young larch and firs, bordering the 
road, until you arrive at the Hut, a small public- 
house by the way-side. Nearly opposite to this 
is a plain white gate, without lodges, opening 
into the park ; before stands a fine, spreading oak, 
one of the few remaining trees of Sherwood fo- j 
rest, the famous haunt of Robin Hood and hi.; 
associates, which once covered all this part of 
the county, and whose centre was about the do- 
main of Newstead. To this oak, the only one of 
any size on the estate, Byron was very partial. It 
is pretty well known that his great-uncle (to whom 
he succeeded) cut down almost all the valuable 
timber, so that when Cyron came into possession 
of the estate, and indeed the whole time he had 
it, it presented a very bare and desolate appear- 
ance, 'idie soil is very poor, and fit only for 
the growth of larch and firs; and of these up- 
wards of 700 acres have been planted. Byron 
could not afford the first outlay which was ne- 
cessary in order ultimately to increase its worth, 
so that, as long as he held it, the rental did not 
exceed i,3ool. a-year. From the gate to the Ab- 
bey is a mile. The carriage-road runs straight 
for about 3oo yards through the plantations, when 
it takes a sudden turn to the right ; and on re- 
turning to the left, a beautiful and extensive view 
over the valley and distant hills is opened, with 
the turrets of the Abbey rising among the dark 
trees beneath. To the right of the Abbey is 
perceived a tower on a hill, in the midst of a 
grove of firs. From this part the road winds 
gently to the left, till it reaches the Abbey, which 
is approached on the north side : it lies in a val- 
ley, very low, sheltered to the north and west 
by rising ground, and to the south enjoying a 
fine prospect over an undulating vale. A more 
secluded spot could hardly have been chosen for 
the pious purposes to which it was devoted. To 
the north and east is a garden walled in : and to 
the west the upper lake. On the west side the 
mansion is without any enclosure or garden-drive, 
and can therefore be approached by any person 
passing through the park. In this open space 
is the ancient fountain or cistern of the convent, 
covered with grotesque carvings, and having wa- 
ter still running into a basin. The old church 
window, which, in an architectural point of view, 
is most deserving of observation, is nearly entire, 
and adjoins the north-west corner of the Abbey. 
Through the iron gate which opens into the gar- 
den under the arch, is seen the dog's tomb : it is j 
on the north side, upon a raised ground, and sur- 
rounded by steps. The verses inscribed on one 
side of the pedestal are well known ; but the lines 
preceding them are not so — they run thus : — 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xiu 



Ne;ir this spot 

Are deposited the remains of one 

Who possessed beauty without vanity, 

Strength without insolence, 

Courage without ferocity, 

And all the virtues of man without his vices. 

This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery 

If inscribed over human ashes, 

Is but a just tribute to the memory of 

Boatswain, a dog, 

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, i8o3, 

And died at Newstead, November 18th, iSoS. 

The whole edifice is a quadrangle, enclosing a 
court, with a reservoir and jeld'eau in the middle, 
and the cloister, still entire, running round the 
four sides. The south, now the principal front, 
looks over a pleasure garden to a small lake, which 
has been opened from the upper one since Byron's 
time. The entrance door is on the west, in a 
small vestibule, and has nothing remarkable in 
it. On entering, 1 came into a large stone hall, and 
turning to the left, went through it to a smaller, 
! beyond which is the staircase. The whole of 
! this part has been almost entirely rebuilt by Co- 
i lonel Wildman : indeed, during Byron's occupa- 
■ tion, the only habitable rooms were some small 
| ones in the south-east angle. Over the cloister, 
on the four sides of the building, runs the gallery, 
from which doors open into various apartments, 
now fitted up with taste and elegance for the ac- 
commodation of a family, but then empty, and 
fast going to decay. In one of the galleries hang- 
two oil paintings of dogs, as large as life : one a 
red woh-dog, and the other a black Newfound- 
land with white legs— the celebrated Boatswain. 
They both died at Newstead. Of the latter By- 
ron felt the loss as of a dear friend. These are 
almost the only paintings of Byron's that re- 
main at the Abbey.— From the gallery I entered 
the refectory, now the grand drawing-room— 
an apartment of great dimensions, facing south, 
with a fine vaulted roof and polished oak 
floor, and splendidly furnished in the modern 
style. The walls are covered with full-length 
portraits, of the old school. As this room has 
been made fit for use entirely since the days of 
Byron, there are not those associations connected 
with it which are to be found in many of the 
others, though of inferior appearance. Two ob- 
jects there are, however, which demand obser- 
vation. The first that caught my attention was 
the portrait of Byron, by Phillips, over the fire- 
place, upon which I gazed with strong feelings : 
it is certainly the handsomest and most pleasing 
likeness of him I have seen. The other is a thing 
about which every body has heard, and of which 
few have any just idea. In a cabinet at the end 
of the room, carefully preserved and concealed 
in a sliding-case, is kept the celebrated skull cup, 



upon which are inscribed those splendid verses : — 
Start not, — nor deem my spirit fled, etc. 

People often suppose, from the name, that the 
cup retains all the terrific appearances of a death's 
head, and imagine that they could 

Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of wisdom and of wit : 

not at all — there is nothing whatever startling in 
it. It is well polished ; its edge is bound by a broad 
rim of silver; and it is set in a neat stand of the 
same metal, which serves as a handle, and upon 
the four sides of which, and not upon the skull 
itself, the verses are engraved. It is in short, in 
appearance, a very handsome utensil, and one 
from which the most fastidious person might 
(in my opinion) drink without scruple. It was 
always produced after dinner when Byron had 
company at the Abbey, and a bottle of claret 
poured into it. An elegant round library table 
is the only article of furniture in this room that 
belonged to Byron, and this he constantly used. 
Beyond the refectory, on the same floor, is By- 
ron's study, now used as a temporary dining-room, 
the entire furniture of which is the same that 
was used by him : it is all very plain — indeed, 
ordinary. A good painting of a battle, over the 
sideboard, was also his. This apartment, per- 
haps beyond all others, deserves the attention 
of the pilgrim to Newstead, as more intimately 
connected with the poetical existence of Byron. 
It was here that he prepared for the press those 
first effusions of his genius, which were published 
at Newark under the title of « Hours of Idleness." 
It was here that he meditated, planned, and for 
the most part wrote, that splendid retort to the 
severe critique they had called down, which 
stamped him as the keenest satirist of the day. 
And it was here that his tender and beautiful 
verses to Mary, and many of those sweet pieces 
found among his miscellaneous poems, were com- 
posed. His bed-room is small, and still remains 
in the same state as when he occupied it. It con- 
tains Jittle worthy of notice besides the bed, 
which is of common size, with gilt posts, surmoun- 
ted by coronets. Over the fire-place is a picture 
of Murray the old family ser\ ant, who accompanied 
Byron to Gibraltar when he first went abroad. 
A picture of Henry VIII, and another portrait 
in this room, complete the enumeration of all the 
furniture or paintings of Byron's remaining at the 
Abbey- In some of the rooms are very cu- 
riously carved mantel-pieces with grotesque fi- 
gures, evidently of old date. In a corner of one 
of the galleries there still remained the fencing- 
foils, gloves, masks, and single-sticks, he used in 
his youth; and in a corner of the cloister lies a 
stone coffin taken from the burial-ground of the 

b 



XIV 



LIFE OF LORD IIYIION. 



Abbey. The ground floor contains some spacious 
lialls, and divers apartments lor domestic offices; 
and there is a neat little private chapel in the 
cloister, where service is performed on Sundays. 
Byron's sole recreation here was his hoat and dogs, 
and boxing and fencing for exercise, and to 
prevent a tendency to obesity— which he dreaded. 
— His constant employment was writing, for 
which he used to sit up as late as two or three 
o'clock in the morning. His life here was an en- 
tire seclusion, devoted to poetry." 

Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest years, 
that nature had added to the advantages of high 

i descent tbe richest gifts of genius and of fancy. 

' His own tale is partly told in two lines of Lara : 

Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself, that heritage of woe. 

' His first literary adventure and its fate are we'd 
' remembered. The poems which he published in 
j his minority had, i ndeed, those faults of conception 
; and diction which are inseparable from juvenile 
J attempts, and may rather he considered as imi- 
] tative of what had caught the ear and fancy of 
j the youthful author, than as exhibiting origina- 
| lity of conception and expression. Yet though 
I there were many, and thosa not the worst 
! judges, who discerned in his "Hours of Idleness" 
! some depth of thought and felicity of expression, 
; the work did not escape the critical lash of the 
J « Scotch Reviewers, » who could not resist the 
| opportunity of pouncing upon a titled poet, and 
of seeking to entertain their readers with a flip- 
pant article, without much respect to the feel- 
ings of the author, or even to the indications of 
merit which the work displayed. The review 
was read, and excited mirth ; the poems were 
neglected, the author was irritated, and took his 
revenge in keen iambics, which at once proved 
the injustice of the critic and the ripening ta- 
leuts of the bard. Having thus vented his indig- 
nation against the reviewers and their readers, 
and drawn all the laughers to his side, Lord By- 
ron went abroad, and the controversy was for 
some years forgotten. 

It was at Newstead, just before his coming of 
^ge, that he planned his future travels; and his 
original intention included a much larger portion 
of the world than that which he afterwards vi- 
sited. He first thought of Persia, to which idea 
indeed he for a long time adhered. He after- 
wards meant to sail for India ; and had so far 
contemplated this project as to write for infor- 
mation to the Arabic professor at Cambridge, 
and to ask his mother to inquire of a friend who 
had lived in India, what things would be neces- 
sary for his voyage. He formed his plan of tra- 
velling upon very different grounds from those 



which he afterwards advanced. All men should 
travel atone time or another, he thought, and he 
had then no connexions to prevent him; when he 
returned he might enter into political life, for 
which travelling would not incapacitate him, and 
he wished to judge of men by experience. 

At length, in July, 1809, in company with John 
Cam Hobhouse, Esq. (with whom his acquaint- 
ance commenced at Cambridge), Lord Byron 
embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and thence 
proceeded, by the southern provinces of Spain, 
to the Mediterranean. The ohjects that he met 
with as far as Gibraltar seem to have occupied 
his mind, to the temporary exclusion of his 
gloomy and misanthropic thoughts; for a letter 
which he wrote to his mother from thence con- 
tains much playful description of the scenes 
through which he had passed. At Seville, Lord 
Byron lodged in the house of two ladies, one of 
whom was about to be married, and who, though 
he remained there only three days, paid him the 
most particular attention. At parting, she em- 
braced him with great tenderness, cutting off a 
lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of 
her own. With this specimen of Spanish female 
manners, he proceeded to Cadiz, where various 
incidents occurred to confirm the opinion he had 
formed at Seville of the Andalusian belles, and 
which made him leave it with regret, but with 
a determination to return to it. He wrote to his 
mother from Malta, announcing his safety, and 
again from Previsa, in November. Upon ar- 
riving at Yanina,he found that Ali Pacha was with 
his troops in Illyriura, besieging Ibrahim Pacha 
in Berat; but the vizier, having heard that an 
English nobleman was in his country, had given 
orders at Yanina to supply him with every 
kind of accommodation free of expense. From 
Yanina Lord Byron went to Tepaleen. Here he 
was lodged in the palace, and the next day intro- 
duced to Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew 
him to be a man of rank from the smallness of 
his ears, his curling hair, and his white hands. 

In going in a Turkish ship of war, provided 
by Ali Pacha, from Previsa, intending to sail lor 
Patras, Lord Byron was very nearly lost in a mo- 
derate gale of wind, from the ignorance of the 
Turkish officers and sailors, and was driven on 
the coast ofSuli, where an instance of disinter- 
ested hospitality in the chief of a Suliote village 
occurred. The honest Albanian, after assisting 
him in his distress, supplying his wants, and 
lodging him and his suite, refused to receive any 
remuneration. When Lord Byron pressed him 
to accept some money, he said, « I wish you to 
love me, not to pay me! » — At Yanina, on his 
return, he was introduced to Hussein Bey and 
Mahmout Pacha , two young children of Ali Pa- 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xv 



cha. He afterwards visited Smyrna, whence [12 
went in the Salsette frigate to Constantinople. 

On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette was 
lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, 
accompanied by Lieutenant Ekenhead, swam 
across the Hellespont from the European shore 
to the Asiatic — about two miles wide. The tide 
of the Dardanelles runs so strong, that it is im- 
possible either to swim or to sail to any given 
point. Lord Byron went from the castle to Aby- 
dos, landing full three miles below his meditated 
place of approach. He had a boat in attendance 
all the way ; so that no danger could be appre- 
hended, even if his strength had failed. His lord- 
ship records, in one of his minor poems, that 
he got the ague by the voyage; but it was well 
known , that after landing , he was so much 
exhausted, that he gladly accepted the offer of a 
Turkish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for se- 
veral hours. He was then \ery ill, and as Lieute- 
nant Ekenhead was compelled to go on board his 
frigate, he was left alone. The Turk had no idea 
of the rank or consequence of bis inmate, but 
paid him most marked attention. His wife was 
his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he left this 
asylum, completely recovered. When about to 
embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a 
cheese, a skin filled with wine, and a few paras 
(about a penny each), prayed Allah to bless him, 
and wished him safe home. When his lordship 
arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Stefano 
to the Turk, with an assortment of fishing-nets, 
a fowling-piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve 
yards of silk to make gowns for his wife. The 
poorTurk wasastonished. « What a noble return,- 
said he, « for an act of humanity !» He then formed 
the resolution of crossing the Hellespont, in order 
to thank his lordship in person. His wife ap- 
proved of the plan; and he had sailed about half 
way across, when a sudden squall upset his boat, 
and the poor Turkish fisherman found a watery 
grave. Lord Byron was much distressed on hear- 
ing of the catastrophe, and, with all that kind- 
ness of heart which was natural to him, he sent 
the widow fifty dollars, and told her he would 
ever be her friend. This anecdote , so highly ho- 
nourable (o his lordship's memory, is very little 
known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on the spot 
at the time, furnished the particulars ; and added 
that, in the year 1817, Lord Byron, then pro- 
ceeding to Constantinople, landed at the same 
spot, and made a handsome present to the widow 
and her son. 

When residing at Mityfene he portioned eight 
young girls very liberally, and even danced with 
them at the marriage feast; he gave a cow to one 
man, horses to another, and cotton and silk to 
several girls who lived by weaving these materials : 



he also bought a new boat for a fisherman who 
had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave 
Greek testaments to the poor children. 

It was not until after Lord Byron arrived at 
Constantinople that he decided on not going to 
Persia, but to pass the following summer in the 
Morea. At Constantinople, Mr Hobhouse left 
him to return to England. On losing his com- 
panion, Lord Byron went alone, to many of the 
places which he had already visited, and studied 
scenery and manners, especially those of Greece, 
with the searching eye of a poet. His mind ap- 
peared occasionally to have some tendency to- 
wards a recovery from the morbid state of apathy 
which it had previously evinced; and the grati- 
fication he manifested on observing the superi- 
ority of England over other countries, proved that 
patriotism was far from being extinct in his bo- 
som. The embarrassed state of his affairs at 
length induced him to return home; and he ar- 
rived in the Volage frigate on the 2d of July,. 
18 1 1 , having been absent two years. His health 
had not suffered by his travels, although it had 
been interrupted by two sharp fevers, in conse- 
quence of which he put himself on a vegetable 
diet, and drank no wine. 

Soon after his arrival, the serious illness of his 
mother summoned him to Newstead; buton reach- 
ing the Abbey, he found that she had breathed 
her last. He suffered much from this loss, 
and from the disappointment of not seeing her 
before her death; and while his feelings on the 
subject were still acute, he received the intelli- 
gence that a friend, whom he highly esteemed, 
had been drowned in the Cam. Not long before 
he had heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a 
school-fellow, to whom he was much attached. 
These three melancholy events, occurring within 
the space of a month, had a powerful effect on 
Lord Byron's feeiings. 

Towards the termination of his « English Bai'ds 
and Scotch Reviewers," the noble author had de- 
clared, that it was his intention to break off, from 
that period, his newly-formed connexion with 
the Muses, and that, should he return in safety 
from the « minarets » of Constantinople, the 
« maidens » of Georgia, and the « sublime snows » 
of Mount Caucasus, nothing on earth should 
tempt him to resume the pen. Such resolutions 
are seldom maintained. In February, 1812, the 
first two cantos of « Childe Harold's Pilgrimage » 
(with the manuscript of which he had presented 
Mr Dallas) made their appearance, and produced 
an effect on the public equal to that of any work 
which has been published within this or the last 
century. 

The indications of a powerful and original 
mind which glance through every line of Childe 



XVI 



LIFE OF LOUD 15 Y RON. 



Harold electrified the mass of readers, and placed 
at once upon Lord Byron's head ihe garland for 
which other men of genius have toiled long and 
ohtained late. He hecame pre-eminent among 
the literary men of his country by general accla- 
mation. Those who had somercilesslycensincd his 
juvenile essays were the first to pay homage to his 
more matured efforts ; while others, who saw in 
the sentiments ofChilde Harold much to regret 
and censure, did not withhold their tribute of 
applause to the depth of thought and force of 
expression which animated the « Pilgrimage. » 
Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared 
to greet the author with that fame which is the 
poet's best reward. It was amidst such feelings 
of admiration that Lord Byron fully entered on 
that public stage where, to the close of his life, he 
made so distinguished a figure. 

Every thing in his manner, person, and con- 
versation tended to maintain the charm which 
his genius had flung around him ; and those ad- 
mitted to his conversation, far from finding that 
the inspired poet sunk into ordinary mortality, 
felt themselves attached to him by many noble qua- 
lities, and by the interest of a mysterious and 
almost painful curiosity. 

It is well known how wide the doors of society 
are opened in London to literary merit very in- 
ferior to Lord Byron's, and that it is only neces- 
sary to be honourably distinguished by the public 
voice to move as a denizen in the first circles. 
This passport was not necessary to Lord Byron, 
who possessed the hereditary claims of birth and 
rank. But the interest which his genius attached 
to his presence and conversation, was of a nature 
far beyond what these hereditary claims could of 
themselves have conferred, and his reception was 
enthusiastic beyond any thing imaginable. Lord 

| Byron was not one of those literary men of whom 
it may be said, minuit prcesentia famam. A counte- 
nance, exquisitely modeled for the expression of 
feeling and passion, and exhibiting the remark- 
able contrast of very dark hair and eye-brows, 
with light eyes, presented to the physiognomist 
an interesting subject for the exercise of his art. 
The predominating expression was that of deep 
and habitual thought, which, when engaged in 
interesting discussion, gave way to so rapid a 
play of features, that a brother poet compared 

| them to the sculpture of a beautiful alabaster 
vase, seen only to perfection when lighted up 
from within. The flashes of mirth, gaiety, indig- 
nation, or satirical dislike which frequently ani- 
mated his countenance, might, during an even- 
ing's conversation, be mistaken by a stranger for 
its habitual expression, so happily was it formed 
for them all; but those who had an opportunity 
of studying his features for a length of time, and 



on various occasions of rest and emotion, knew 
that their proper language was that of melan- 
choly, which sometimes interrupted even his 
gayest and most happy moments. The following 
verses are said to have dropped from his pen, to 
excuse a transient expression of melancholy which 
overclouded the general gaiety: 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eve — 
Heed not the {doom thai soon shall sink, 

Wv thoughts their dungeoa know too well; 
Buck to my breast the captives shrink, 

And bleed within their silent cell. 

It was impossible to notice a dejection belong- 
ing neither to the rank, the age, nor the success 
of this young nobleman, without feeling an inde- 
finable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a 
deeper cause than habit or constitutional tempera- 
ment. But, howsoever derived, this appearance of 
melancholy, added to his minglingin amusements 
and sports as if he contemned them, while he felt 
that his sphere was far above the fashionable and 
frivolous crowd that surrounded him, gave a strong 
effect of colouring to a character whose tints were 
otherwise decidedly romantic. Xoble and far 
descended, the pilgrim of distant and savage 
countries, eminent as a poet, and having cast 
around him a mysterious charm by the sombre 
tone of his poetry and the occasional melancholy 
of his deportment, Lord Byron occupied the eyes 
and interested the feelings of all. The enthu- 
siastic looked on him to admire, the serious with 
a wish to admonish, and the gentle with a desire 
to console. Even literary envy, a base sensation,, 
from which perhaps this age is more free than 
any other, forgave the man whose splendour 
dimmed the fame of his competitors. The gene- 
rosity of Lord Byron's disposition, his readiness to 
assist merit in distress, and to bring it forward 
where unknown, deserved and obtained general 
regard ; while his poetical effusions, poured 
forth with equal force and fertility, showed at 
once a daring confidence in his own powers, and 
a determination to maintain, by continued effort, 
the high place he had attained in British litera- 
ture. 

At one of the fashionable parties to which the 
noble bard was invited, His Majesty, then Prince 
Regent, happened to be present. Lord Byron was 
at some distance when he entered the room, but, 
on learning who he was, His Royal Highness sent 
a gentleman to desire that he would be present- 
ed. Of course the presentation took place ; the 
Regent expressed his admiration of «Childe Ha- 
rold's Pilgiimage," and entered into a cou versa- 



.' -. : : 

| tion which so fascinated the poet, that had it not 
heen for an accidentwhich deferred a levee intend- 
ed to have heen held the next day, he would have 
gone to court. Soon after, however, an unfor- 
tunate influence counteracted the effect of royal 
praise, and Byron permitted himself to write and 
speak disrespectfully of the prince. 

The whole of Byron's political career may he 
summed up in the following anecdotes : 

The Earl of Carlisle having declined to intro- 
duce him to the House of Peers, he resolved to 
introduce himself, and accordingly went there a 
little hefore the usual hour, when he knew few 
of the lords would be present. On entering he 
appeared rather abashed and looked very pale, 
but, passing the woolsack, where the Chancellor 
(Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordi- 
nary routine of the house, he went directly to the 
table, where the oaths were administered to him. 
The Lord Chancellor then approached, and of- 
fered his hand in the most open friendly manner, 
congratulating him on his taking possession of 
his seat. Lord Byron only placed the tips of his 
fingers in the Chancellor's hand : the latter re- 
turned to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a 
few minutes on one of the opposition benches, 
retired. To Mr Dallas, who followed him out, 
he gave as a reason for not entering into the spirit 
of the Chancellor, « that it might have been sup- 
posed he would join the court party, whereas he 
intended to have nothing at all to do with po- 
litics. » 

He only addressed the house three times : the 
first of his speeches was on the Frame-work 
Bill ; the secoud in favour of the Catholic claims, 
which gave good hopes of his becoming an ora- 
tor; and the other related to a petition from 
Major Cartwright. Byron himself says, the Lords 
told him « his manner was not dignified enough 
for them, and would better suit the lower house ;» 
others say, they gathered round him while 
speaking, listening with the greatest attention — a 
sign at any rate that he was interesting. He 
always voted with the opposition, but evinced no 
likelihood of becoming the blindpartisan of either 
side. 

The enmity that Byron entertained towards the 
Earl of Carlisle was owing to two causes : the earl 
had spoken rather irreverently of the «. Hours of 
idleness,'- and had also refused to introduce his 
kinsman to the House of Lords, even, it is said, 
doubting his right to a seat in that honourable 
house. The Earl was a great admirer of the 
classic drama, and once published a pamphlet, in 
which he strenuously argued in behalf of the 
propriety and necessity of small theatres : the 
same day that this weighty publication appeared, 
he subscribed a thousaud pounds for some public 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



purpose. On this occasion Byron composed the 
following epigram : 

Carlisle subscribes a thousand pound 

Out of his rich domains ; 
And for a sixpence circles round 

The produce of his brains : 
'T is thus the difference you may hit 
Between his fortune and his wit. 

Byron retained to the last his antipathy to this 
relative. On reading some lines addressed to Lady 
Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to 
reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napo- 
leon, beginning 

Lady, reject the gift, ein. 

He immediately wrote the following parody : 

Lady, accept the gift a hero wore, 

In spite of all this elegiac stuff: 
Let not seven stanzas written by a bore 

Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff. 

On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr Dallas 
called upon him, and, after the usual salutations 
inquired if he was prepared with any other work 
to support the fame which he had already ac- 
quired. Byron in reply delivered to him a poem, 
entitled « Hints from Horace," being a paraphrase 
of the Art of Poetry. Mr Dallas promised to su- 
perintend its publication as he had done that of 
the satire; and, accordingly, it was carried to Caw- 
thorn the bookseller, and matters arranged; but 
Mr D. not thinking the poem likely to increase 
his lordship's reputation, allowed it to linger in 
the press. It began thus : 

Who would not laugh if Lawrence, hired to grace 

His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 

Abused his art, till Nature with a blush 

Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his hrush ? 

Or should some limner join, for show or sale, 

A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ; 

Or low D*** (as once the world has seen) 

Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen — 

Not all that forced politeness which defends 

Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 

Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 

The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 

Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 

Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 

Mr Dallas ha\ing expressed his sorrow that his 
lordship had written nothing else, Byron told him 
that he had occasionally composed some verses 
intheSpenserean measure, relative to the countries 
he had visited. « They are not worth troubling 
you with,» said his lordship, « but you shall have 
them all with you." He then handed him « Childe 
Harold's Pilgrimage." When Mr Dallas had read 
the poem, he was in raptures with it, and resolved 
to do his utmost to suppress the « Hints^ from 
Horace, » and bring out Childe Harold. He urged 



XVI 11 



LIFE OF LORD UYRON. 



Byron to publish this last poem; but he was 
unwilling. He would not be convinced of the 
great merit of the « Chiltle,» and as some person 
bad seen it before Mr Dallas, and expressed dis- 
approbation, Byron was by no means sure of its 
kind reception by the world. In a short time 
afterwards, however, he agreed to its publication, 
and requested Mr Dallas not to deal with Caw- 
tborn, but to offer it to Miller of Albemarle Street : 
he wished a fashionable publisher. Miller declined 
it, chiefly on account of the strictures it contained 
on Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Longman 
had refused to publish the « Satire," and Byron 
would not suffer any of his works to come from 
that house. The work was therefore carried to 
Mr Murray j who had expressed a desire to publish 
for Lord Byron, and regretted that Mr Dallas had 
not taken the « English Bards and Scotch Be- 
viewers» to him; but this was after its success. 

Byron became accpiainted with Mr Hogg, the 
Ettrick Shepherd, at the Lakes. Hogg was stand- 
ing at the inn door of Ambleside, when a strapping 
young man came out of the house, and taking off 
his hat, held out his hand to him. The Shepherd 
did not know him, and appearing at a loss, the 
other relieved him by saying, « Mr Hogg, I hope 
you will excuse me; my name is Byron, and 1 
cannot help thinking that we ought to hold our- 

I selves acquainted." The poets accordingly shook 
hands, and, while they continued at the Lakes, 
were on the most intimate terms, drinking deeply 
together, and laughing at their brother bards. 
On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent Hogg a 
letter quizzing the Lakists, which the Shepherd 
was so mischievous as to show to them. 

On the 2d of January, 181 5, Lord Byron mar- 
ried, at Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne 
Isabella, only daughter of Sir Balph Millbank 
(since Noel), Bart. To this lady he had made a 
proposal twelve months before, but was rejected : 
well would it have been for their mutual hap- 
piness had that rejection been repeated. After 
their marriage, Lord and Lady Byron took a 
house in London, gave splendid dinner-parties, 
and launched into every sort of fashionable ex- 
travagance. This could not last long; the portion 
which his lordship received with Miss Millbank 
(ten thousand pounds) soon melted away; and, at 
length, an execution was actually levied on the 
furniture of his residence. It was then agreed 
that Lady Byron, who, on the 10th of December, 
i8i5, had presented her lord with a daughter, 
should pay a visit to her father till the storm was 
blown over, and some arrangements had been 
made with their creditors. From that visit she 
never returned, andaseparation ensued, for which 

j various reasons have been assigned; the real cause 



or causes, however, are upto this moment involved 
in mystery, though, as might be expected, a won- 
derful sensation was excited at the time, and every 
description of contradictory rumour was in active 
circulation. 

Byron was first introduced to Miss Millbank at 

Lady 's. In going up stairs he stumbled, and 

remarked to Moore, who accompanied him, that 
it was a bad omen. On entering the room, he 
perceived a lady more simply dressed than the 
rest sitting on a sofa. He asked Moore if she was 
a humble companion to any of the ladies. The 
latter replied, « She is a great heiress ; you'd 
better marry her, and repair the old place at 
Newstead.n 

The following anecdotes on the subject of his 
marriage are given from Lord Byron's Conversa- 
tions, in his own words: 

« There was something piquant, and what we 
term pretty, in Miss Millbank; her features were 
small and feminine, though not regular; she had 
the fairest skin imaginable; her figure Avas per- 
fect for her height, and there was a simplicity, a 
retired modesty about her, which was very cha- 
racteristic, and formed a happy contrast to the 
cold artificial formality and studied stiffness 
which is called fashion : she interested me ex- 
ceedingly. It is unnecessary to detail the pro- 
gress of our acquaintance : I became daily more 
attached to her, and it ended in my making her 
a proposal that was rejected; her refusal was 
couched in terms that could not offend me. I 
was besides persuaded that in declining my offer 
she was governed by the influence of her mother; 
and was the more confirmed in this opinion by 
her reviving our correspondence herself twelve 
months after. The tenor of her letter was, that 
although she could not love me, she desired njy 
friendship. Friendship is a dangerous w r ord for 
young ladies; it is love full-fledged, and waiting 
for a fine day to fly. 

« I was not so young when my father died, 
but that I perfectly remember him, and had very 
early a horror of matrimony, from the sight of 
domestic broils : this feeling came over me very 
strongly at my wedding. Something whispered 
me that I was sealing my own death-warrant. I 
am a great believer in presentiments: Socrates' 
demon was not a fiction ; Monk Lewis had his 
monitor; and Napoleon many warnings. At the 
last moment I would have retreated if I could 
have done so; I called to mind a friend of mine, 
who li3d married a young, beautiful, and rich 
girl, and yet was miserable; he had strongly 
urged me against putting my neck in the same 
yoke : and, to show you how firmly I was re- 
solved to attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty 



LIFE OF LORD RYRON. 



xix 



guineas to one that I should always remain single. 
Six years afterwards, I sent him the money. The 
clay hefore I proposed to Lady Byron, I had no 
idea of doing so. 

« It had been predicted by Mrs Williams, that 
twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me; 
the fortune-telling witch was right; it was des- 
tined to prove so. I shall never forget the 2d 
of January ! Lady Byron (Byrn, he pronounced 
it) was the only unconcerned person present; 
Lady Noel, her mother, cried; I trembled like a 
leaf, made the wrong responses, and, after the 
ceremony, called her Miss Millbank. 

« There is a singular history attached to the 
ring; the very day the match was concluded, a 
ring of my mother's that had been lost was dug 
up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought it 
was sent on purpose for the wedding; but my 
mother's marriage had not been a fortunate one, 
and this ring was doomed to be the seal of an 
unhappier union still. 

« After the ordeal was over, we set off for a 
country-seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was surprised 
at the arrangements for the journey, and some- 
what out of humour to find a lady's maid stuck 
between me and my bride. It was rather too 
early to assume the husband, so I was forced to 
submit, but it was not with a very good grace. 

« I have been accused of saying, on getting 
into the carriage, that I had married Lady Byron 
out of spite, and because she had refused me 
twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her 
prudery, or whatever it may be called, if I had 
made so uncavalier, not to say brutal, a speech, 
I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly 
have left the carriage to me and the maid (1 mean 
the lady's); she had spirit enough to have done 
so, and would properly have resented the affront. 

« Our honey-moon was not all sunshine, it 
had its clouds; and Hobhouse has some letters 
which would serve to explain the rise and fall in 
the barometer; but it was never down at zero. 
A curious thing happened to. me shortly 



after the h< 



onev-moon, w 



hich was very awkward 



at the time, but has since amused me much. It 
so happened that three married women were on 
a wedding visit to my wife (and in the same room 
at the same time), whom I had known to be all 
birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene of con- 
fusion that ensued ! 

« The world says I married Miss Millbank for 
her fortune, because she was a great heiress. All 
I have ever received, or am likely to receive 
(and that has been twice paid back too), was 
10,000/. My own income at this period was 
small and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was a 
very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a 
bare i5oo/. a year; the Lancashire property was 



hampered with a law-suit, which has cost me 
i4,ooo/., and is not yet finished. 

« I heard afterwards that Mrs Charlraent had 
been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind 
against me; that she had employed herself and 
J others in watching me in London, and had re- 
\ ported having traced me into a house in Port- 
land-Place. There was one act unworthy of 
'anyone but such a confidante; I allude to the 
, breaking open my writing-desk : a book was 
\ found in it that did not do much credit to my 
• taste in literature, and some letters from a mar- 
j ried woman with whom I had been intimate 
before my marriage. The use that was made of 
the latter was most unjustifiable, whatever may 
be thought of the breach of confidence that led 
to their discovery. Lady Byron sent them to the 
1 husband of the lady, who had the good sense to 
! take no notice of their contents. The gravest 
j accusation that has been made against ine is that 
of having intrigued with Mrs Mardyn in my own 
house, introduced her to my own table, etc.; 
there never was a more unfounded calumny. 
Being on the Committee of Drury-Lane Theatre, 
I have no doubt that several actresses called on 
me; but as to Mrs Mardyn, who was a beautiful 
woman, and might have been a dangerous visi- 
tress, I was scarcely acquainted (to speak) with 
her. I might even make a more serious charge 
against than employing spies to watch sus- 
pected amours. I had been shut up in a dark 
street in London writing ' The Siege of Corinth,' 
and had refused myself to every one till it was 
finished. I was surprised one day by a doctor 
and a lawyer almost forcing themselves at the 
same time into my room; I did not know till 
afterwards the real object of their visit. I 
thought their questions singular, frivolous, and 
somewhat importunate, if not impertinent; but 
what should I have thought if I had known that 
they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity? 
I have no doubt that my answers to these emis- 
saries' interrogations were not very rational or 
consistent, for my imagination was heated by 
other things; but Dv Baillie could not conscien- 
tiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam, 
and perhaps the lawyer gave a more favourable 
report to his employers. The doctor said after- 
wards he had been told that I always, looked 
down when Lady Byrcn bent her eyes on me, 
and exhibited other symptoms equally infallible, 
particularly those that marked the late king's 
case so strongly. I do not, however, tax Lady 
Byron with this transaction : probably she was 
not privy to it; she was the tool of others. Her 
mother always detested me : she had not even 
the decency to conceal it in her own house. 
Dining one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good 



._ 



XX 



LIFI<; OF LORD HYKON. 



sort of man, and of whom you may form some 
idea, when 1 tell yon that a leg of mutton was 
always served at his tahle, that he might cut the 
same joke upon it), I hroke a tooth, and was in 
great pain, which I could not avoid showing. ' It 
will do you good,' said Lady Noel; ' I am glad of 
it !' I gave her a look ! 

« Lady Byron had good ideas, hut could never 
express them ; wrote poetry too, hut it was only 
good hy accident; her letters were always enig- 
matical, often unintelligible. She was easily 
made the dupe of the designing, for she thought 
her knowledge of mankind infallible. She had 
got some foolish idea of Madame de Stael's into 
her head, that a person may he better known 
in the first hour than in ten years. She had the 
habit of drawing people's characters after she 
had seen them once or twice. She wrote pajyes 
on pages about my character, but it was as unlike 
as possible. She was governed by what she 
called fixed rules and principles, squared mathe- 
matically. She would have made an excellent 
wrangler at Cambridge. It must be confessed, 
however, that she gave no proof of her boasted 
consistency; first she refused me, then she ac- 
cepted me, then she separated herself from me— 
so much for consistency. 1 need not tell you of 
the obloquy and opprobrium that were cast upon 
my name when our separation was made public . 
I once made a list from the journals of the day 
of the different worthies, ancient and modern, 
to whom I was compared : I remember a few,— 
Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, 

Henry the Eighth, and lastly, the .All my 

former friends, even my cousin George Byron, 
who had been brought up with me, and whom 1 
loved as a brother, took my wife's part: he fol- 
lowed the stream when it was strongest against 
me, and can never expect any thing from me ; 
he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. I was 
looked upon as the worst of husbands, the most 
abandoned and wicked of men ; and my wife as 
a suffering angel, an incarnation of all the vir- 
tues and perfections of the sex. I was abused in 
the public prints, made the common talk of pri- 
vate companies, hissed as I went to the House of 
Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to go to the 
theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs Mardyn 
had been driven with insult. The Examiner was 
the only paper that dared say a word in my 
defence, and Lady Jersey the only person in the 
fashionable world that did not look upon me as a 
monster. » 

k In addition to all these mortifications, my 
affairs were irretrievably involved, and almost 
so as to make me what they wished. 1 was com- 
pelled to part with Newstead, which I never 
could have ventured to sell in my mother's life- 



time. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for 
having done so, though I am told that the estate 
would not now bring half as much as I got for it: 
this does not at all reconcile me to having parted 
with the old Abbey. I did not make up my 
mind lo this step but from the last necessity; I 
had my wife's portion to repay, and was deter- 
mined to add 10,000/. more of my own to it, 
which I did : I always hated being in debt, and 
do not owe a guinea. The moment I had put 
my affairs in train, and in little more than 
eighteen months after my marriage, I left Eng- 
land, an involuntary exile, intending it should 
be for ever.» 

We shall here avail ourselves of some obser- 
vations by a powerful and elegant critic,' whose, 
opinions on the personal character of Lord Byron, 
as well as on the merits of his poems, are, from 
their originality, candour, and discrimination, 
of considerable weight. 

« The charge against Lord Byron, » says this 
writer , « is , not that he fell a victim to ex- 
cessive temptations, and a combination of cir- 
cumstances, which it required a rare and extra- 
ordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, prudence, 
and steadiness to surmount; but that he aban- 
doned a situation of uncommon advantages , and 
fell weakly, pusillanimously, and selfishly, when 
victory would have been easy, and when defeat 

do 



ignor 



In reply to this chai 



not deny that Lord Byron inherited some very 
desirable, and even enviable privileges, in the lot 
of life which fell to his share. I should falsify 
my own sentiments if I treated lightly the gift 
of an ancient English peerage, and a name of 
honour and venerable antiquity ; but without a 
fortune competent to that rank, it is not a bed 
of roses, nay, it is attended with many and ex- 
treme difficulties, and the difficulties are exactly- 
such as a genius and temper like Lord Byron's 
were least calculated to meet — at any rate, least 
calculated to meet under the peculiar collateral 
circumstances in which he was placed. His in- 
come was very narrow ; his Newstead property 
left him a very small disposable surplus ; his 
Lancashire property was , in its condition , etc. 
unproductive. A profession, such as the army, 
might have lessened, or almost annihilated the 
difficulties of his peculiar position; but probably 
his lameness rendered this impossible. He seems 
to have had a love of independence , which was 
noble, and probably even an intractability; but 
this temper added to his indisposition to bend 
and adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, 
or intriguing man , without a single good quality 
of head or heart, might have managed it much 

1 Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



better; he might have made himself subservient 
to government, and wormed himself into some 
lucrative place; or he might have lived meanly, 
conformed himself stupidlv or cringingly to all 
humours, and heen borne onward on the wings 
of societv with little personal expense. 

«Lord Bvron was of another quality and tem- 
perament. If the world would not conform to 
; him, still less would be conform to the world. He 
I had all the manly, baronial pride of his ances- 
tors, though he had not all their wealth, and 
their means of generosity, hospitality, and pa- 
tronage. He had the will, alas ! without the 
power. 

■ With this temper, these feelings, this genius, 
exposed to a combination of such untoward and 
trving circumstances, it would indeed have been 
inimitably praiseworthy if Lord Bvron could 
have been alwavs wise, prudent, calm, correct, 
pure, virtuous, and unassailable : — if he could 

| have shown all the force and splendour of his 
mighty poetical energies, without any mixture 

; of their clouds, their baneful lightnings, or their 
storms : — if he could have preserved all his sensi- 
bility to every kind and noble passiou, vet have 
remained placid, and unaffected by the attack of 
any blameable emotion; — that is, it would have 
been admirable if he had been an angel, and not 
a man! 

■ Unhappily, the outrages he received, the 
gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, 
even in the time of his highest favour with the 
public, turned the delights of his very davs of 
triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of moodv, 
fierce, and violent despair, which led to humours, 
acts, and words, that mutually aggravated the ill 
will and the offences between him and his assail- 
ants. There was a daring spirit in his temper 
and his talents, which was alwavs inflamed rather 
than corrected by opposition. 

■ In this most unpropitious state of things, 
every thing that went wrong was attributed to 
Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, was as- 
sumed and argued upon as an undeniable fact. 
Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, —quite unat- 
tended by a particle of doubt,— that in many 
things in which he has been the most blamed, he 
was the absolute victim of misfortune; that un- 
propitious trains of events (for I do not wish to 
shift the blame on others) led to explosions and 
consequent derangements, which no cold, prudent 
pretender to extreme propriety and correctness 
could have averted or met in a manner less 
blameable than that in which Lord Bvron met it. 

« It is not easy to conceive a character less 
fitted to conciliate general society by his manners 
and habits than that of Lord Bvron. It is pro- 
bable that he could make his address and con- 



versation pleasing to ladies when he chose to 
please; but, to the voung dandies of fashion, noble 
and ignoble, he must have been very repulsive : 
as long as he continued to be the ton,— the lion, 
— they may have endured him without opening 
their mouths, because he had a frown and a lash 
which they were not willing to encounter; but 
when his back was turned, and they thought it 
safe, I do not doubt that they burst out into full 
cry I I have heard complaints of his vanity, his 
peevishness, his desire to monopolize distinction, 
his dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is not 
improbable that there may have been some foun- 
dation for these complaints : I am sorry for it if 
there was ; I regret such littlenesses. -And then 
another part of the story is probably left untold : 
we hear nothing of the provocations given him ; 
— sly hints, curve of the lip, side looks, treache- 
rous smiles, flings at poetry, shrugs at noble au- 
thors, slang jokes, idiotic bets, enigmatical ap- 
pointments, and boasts of being senseless brutes! 
We do not hear repeated the jest of the glory of 
the Jew, that buys the ruined peer's falling castle; 
the d — d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud 
and the best hounds in the countrv out of the 
snippings and odds and ends of his contract; and 
the famous good match that the duke's daughter 
is going to make with Dick Wiglv, the son of the 
rich slave-merchant at Liverpool ! We do not 
hear the clever dry jests whispered round the 
table by Mr — — , eldest son of the new and rich 

Lord , by young Mr , only son of Lord — , 

the ex-lords A., B., and C, sons of the three Irish 
Union earls, great borough-holders, and the very 

grave and sarcastic Lord . who believes that 

he has the monopoly of all the talents and all the 
political and legislative knowledge of the king- 
dom, and that a poet and a bellman are onlv fit 
to be yoked together. 

« Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty 
poet driven into exile ! Yes, driven ! Who would 
live in a country in which he had been so used, 
even though it was the land of his nativity, the 
land of a thousand noble ancestors, the land of 
freedom, the land where his head had been 
crowned with laurels, — but where his heart had 
been tortured ; where all his most generous and 
most noble thoughts had been distorted and ren- 
dered ugly, and where his slightest errors and 
indiscretions had been magnified into hideous 
crimes?" 

Lord Byron's own opinions on the connubial 
state are thus related by Captain Parrv : — 

■ There are, » said his lordship, « so many un- 
definable, and nameless, and not-to-be named 
causes of dislike, aversion, and disgust, in the ma- 
trimonial state, that it is always impossible for 
the public, or the best friends of the parties, to 



XXII 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



judge between man and wife. Theirs is a relation 
about which nobody but themselves can form a 
correct idee, or have any right to speak. As long 
as neither party commits gross injustice towards 
the other; as long as neither the woman nor the 
man is guilty of any offence which is injurious to 
the community ; as long as the husband provides 
for his offspring, and secures the public against 
the dangers arising from their neglected educa- 
tion, or from the charge of supporting them; by 
what right does it censure him for ceasing to 
dwell under the same roof with a woman, who 
is to him, because he knows her, while others do 
not, an object of loathing? Can any thing be 
more monstrous than for the public voice to com- 
pel individuals who dislike each other to con- 
tinue their cohabitation? This is at least the 
effect of its interfering with a relationship, of 
which it has no possible means of judging. It 
does not indeed drag a man to a woman's bed 
by physical force, but it does exert a moral force 
continually and effectively to accomplish the 
same purpose. Nobody can escape this force but 
those who are too high, or those who are too low, 
for public opinion to reach ; or those hypocrites 
who are, before others, the loudest in their ap- 
probation of the empty and unmeaning forms of 
society, that they may securely indulge all their 
propensities in secret. 1 have suffered amazingly 
from this interference ; for though I set it at de- 
fiance, I was neither too high nor too low to be 
reached by it, and I was not hypocrite enough 
to guard myself from its consequences. 

« What do they say of my family affairs in 
England, Parry ? My story, I suppose, like other 
minor events, interested the people for a day, 
and was then forgotten?" I replied, no; I 
thought, owing to the very great interest the pub- 
lic took in him, it was still remembered and 
talked about. I mentioned that it was generally 
supposed a difference of religious sentiments be- 
tween him and Lady Byron had caused the pub- 
lic breach. « No, Parry, » was the reply; « Lady 
Byron has a liberal mind, particularly as to 
religious opinions; and I wish, when I married 
her, that I had possessed the same command over 
myself that 1 now do. Had I possessed a little more 
wisdom, and more forbearance, we might have 
been happy. I wished, when 1 was first married, 
to have remained in the country, particularly till 
my pecuniary embarrassments were over. I knew 
the society of London ; I knew the characters of 
many of those who are called ladies, with whom 
Lady Byron would necessarily have to associate, 
and I dreaded her contact with them. But I have 
too much of my mother about me to be dictated 
to : I like freedom from constraint ; I hate arti- 
ficial regulations : my conduct has always been 



dictated by my own feelings, and Lady Byron 
was quite the creature of rules. She was not 
permitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as 
the physician prescribed. She was not suffered 
to go out when I wished to go : and then the old 
house was a mere ghost-house ; I dreamed of 
ghosts, and thought of them waking. It was an 
existence I could not support." Here Lord Byron 
broke off abruptly, saying, « I hate to speak of 
my family affairs; though 1 have been compelled 
to talk nonsense concerning them to some of my 
butterfly visitors, glad on any terms to get rid 
of their importunities. I long to be again on the 
mountains. I am fond of solitude, and should 
never talk nonsense if I always found plain men 
to talk to. » 

In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted 
England, to return to it no more. He crossed 
over to France, through which he passed rapidly 
to Brussels, taking in his way a survey of the field 
of Waterloo. He then proceeded to Coblentz, 
and up the Rhine to Basle. He passed the summer 
on the banks of the lake of Geneva. With what 
enthusiasm he enjoyed its scenery, his own 
poetry soon exhibited to the world. The third 
canto of Childe Harold, Manfred, and the Pri- 
soner of Chillon were composed at the Campayno 
Diodati, at Coligny, a mile from Geneva. 

The anecdotes that follow are given as his 
lordship related them to Captain Medwin : 

« Switzerland is a country I have been satisfied 
with seeing once; Turkey I could live in for ever. 
I never forget my predilections. I was in a 
wretched state of health, and worse spirits, when 
I was at Geneva; but quiet and the lake, physi- 
cians better than Polidori, soon set me up. I 
never led so moral a life as during my residence 
in that country; but I gained no credit by it. 
Where there is a mortification, there ought to be 
reward. On the contrary, there is no story so 
absurd that they did not invent at my cost. I 
was watched by glasses on the opposite side of 
the lake, and by glasses too that must have had 
very distorted optics. I was waylaid in my even- 
ing drives — I was accused of corrupting all the 
grisetles in the rue Basse. I believe that they 
looked upon me as a man-monster worse than the 
piqueur.a 

« I knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh 
was very civil to me ; and I have a great respect 
for Sismondi. I was forced to return the civili- 
ties of one of their professors by asking him, and 
an old gentleman, a friend of Gray's, to dine 
with me. I had gone out to sail early in the 
morning, and the wind prevented me from re- 
turning in time for dinner. I understand that I 
offended them mortally. Polidori did the ho- 
nours. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xxm 



« Among our countrymen I made no new ac- 
quaintances ; Shelley, Monk Lewis, and Hob- 
house were almost the only English people I saw. 
>o wonder; I showed a distaste for society at that 
time, and went little among the Genevese ; be- 
sides, I could not speak French. What is become 
of my boatman and boat? I suppose she is rot- 
ten ; she was never worth much. When I went 
the tour of the lake in her with Shelley and Hob- 
house, she was nearly wrecked near the very 
spot where Saint-Prenx and Julia were in danger 
of being drowned. It would have been classical to 
have been lost there, but not so agreeable. Shel- 
lev was on the lake much ofteuer than I, at all 
hoars of the night and dav : he almost lived on 
it ; his great rage is a boat. We are both build- 
ing now at Genoa, I a yacht, and he an open 
boat." 

« Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with 
an opinion of my immorality. I used occasion- 
ally to visit her at Coppet ; and once she invited 
me to a familv-dinner. and I found the room full 
of strangers, who had come to stare at me as at 
some outlandish beast in a raree-show. One of 
the ladies fainted, and the rest looked as if his 
satanic majesty had been among them. Madame 
de Stael took the liberty to read me a lecture be- 
fore this crowd, to which I only made her a low 
bow.» 

■ His lordship's travelling equipage was rather 
a singular one, and afforded a strange catalogue 
for the Dogana : seven servants, five carriages, 
nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog and mastiff, 
two cats, three pea-fowls and some hens (I do not 
know whether I have classed them in order of 
rank), formed part of his Jive stock ; these, and 
all his books, consisting of a very large library 
of modern works (for he bought all the best that 
came out), together with a vast quantity of furni- 
ture, might well be termed, with Caesar, ' impe- 
diments.'" 

From the commencement of the year 1817 to 
that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal residence 
was Venicewhere he continued to employ himself 
in poetical composition with an energy still in- 
creasing. He wrote there the Lament of Tasso, 
the fourth canto of Childe Harold, the dramas 
of Marino Faliero, and the Lwo Foscari ; Beppo, 
Mazeppa, and the earlier cantos of Don Juan. 

Considering these only with regard to intel- 
lectual activity and force, there can be no diffe- 
rence of opinion ; though there may be as to their 
degree of poetical excellence, the class in the 
scale of literary merit to which they belong, and 
their moral, religious, and political tendencies. 
Lhe Lament of Tasso, which abounds in the most 
perfect poetry, is liable to no countervailing ob- 
jection on the part of the moralist. 



I Manfred was the first of Lord Byron's dramatic 
poems, and, is perhaps the finest. The melan- 
choly is more heartfelt, and the stern haughtiness 
i of the principal character is altogether of an in- 
tellectual cast : the conception of this character is 
Miitonic. The poet has made him worthy to 
abide amongst those « palaces of nature," those 
1 ■ icy ha!!s.=> « where forms and falls the ava- 
lanche." Manfred stands up against the stupen- 
' dous scenery of the poem, and is as lofty, tower- 
ing, and grand as the mountains : when we picture 
him in imagination he assumes a shape of height 
and independent dignity, shining in its own 
splendour amongst the snowy summits which he 
was accustomed to climb. The passion, in this 
composition, is fervid and impetuous, deep and 
full throughout, while the music of the language 
j is solemn and touching. The first idea of the 
' descriptive passages of this beautiful poem will 
' be easily recognised in the following extract from 
Lord Bvron's travelling memorandum-book. 

« Sept. 22, 1816. Left Thun in a boat, which 
carried us the length of this lake in three hours. 
The lake small, but the banks fiue— rocks down 
to the water's edge — landed at^ewhouse. Passed 
Interlachen — entered upon a range of scenes 
beyond all description or previous conception. 
Passed a rock bearing an inscription — two bro- 
thers — one murdered the other— just the place 
for it. After a variety of windings came to an 
enormous rock — arrived at the foot of the moun- 
tain (the Jnngfraw] — glaciers — torrents — one of 
these 900 feet visible descent — lodge at the cu- 
rate's — set out to see the valley— heard an ava- 
lanche fall, like thunder! — glaciers enormous — 
storm comes on — thunder and lightning, and 
hail! all in perfection and beautiful. The tor- 
rent is in share, curving over the rock, like the 
tail of the white horse streaming in the wind — 
just as might be conceived would be that of the 
' Pale Horse,' on which Death is mounted in the 
Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water, but 
a something between both; its immense height 
gives it a wave, a curve, a spreading here, a con- 
dension there — wonderful — indescribable. 

■ Sept 23. Ascent of the Wingreu, the Dent 
dargent shining like truth on one side, on the 
other the clouds rose from the opposite valley, 
curling up perpendicular precipices, like the foam 
of the ocean of hell dating a spring tide ! It was 
white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in 
appearance. The side we ascended was of course 
not of so precipitous a nature, but on arriving 
at the summit we looked down on the other side 
upon a boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the 
crag on which we stood. Arrived at the Green- 
derwold ; mounted and rede to the higher gla- 
cier — twilight, but distinct — verv fine — glacier 



XXIV 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



like a frozen hurricane— starlight beautiful — the 
whole of the day was fine, and, in point of wea- 
ther, as the day in which Paradise was made. 
Passed whole woods of withered pines — all wi- 
thered—trunks stripped and lifeless— done hy a 
single winter.» 

Of lord Byron's tragedies we shall merely re- 
mark, with reference to the particular nature of 
their tragic character, that their effect is rather 
grand, terrible, and terrific, than mollifying, sub- 
duing, or pathetic. As dramatic poems they 
possess much beauty and originality. 

The style and nature of the poem of Don Juan 
forms a singularly felicitous mixture of burlesque 
and pathos, of humorous observation and the 
higher elements of poetical composition. Never 
was the English language festooned into more 
luxurious stanzas than in Don Juan : the noble 
author shows an absolute control over his means, 
and at every cadence, rhyme, or construction, 
however whimsical, delights us with novel and 
magical associations. We heartily wish, that 
the fine poetry so richly scattered through the 
sixteen cantos of this most original and astonish- 
ing production, had not been mixed up with 
much that is equally frivolous as foolish ; and 
sincerely do we regret, that the alloying dross of 
sensuality should run so freely through the other- 
wise rich vein of the author's verse. 

Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a noble in- 
stance of generosity. The house of a shoemaker, 
near his lordship's residence in St Samuel, was 
burnt to the ground, with every article it con- 
tained, and the proprietor reduced with a large 
family to the greatest indigence. When his lord- 
ship ascertained the afflicting circumstances of 
that calamity, he not only ordered a new and 
superior habitation to be immediately built for 
the sufferer, the whole expense of which was borne 
by him, but also presented the unfortunate trades- 
man with a sum equal in value to the whole of 
his lost stock in trade and furniture. 

Lord Byron avoided as much as possible any 
intercourse with his countrymen at Venice; and 
this seems to have been in a great measure neces- 
sary in order to prevent the intrusion of imperti- 
nent curiosity. In the appendix to one of his 
poems, written with reference to a book of travels, 
the author of which disclaimed any wish to be 
introduced to the noble lord, he loftily and sar- 
castically chastises the incivility of such a gra- 
tuitous declaration, expresses his « utter abhor- 
rence of any contact with the travelling English;" 
and thus concludes : « Except Lords Lansdowne, 
Jersey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Hammond, 
Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr Lewis, W. 
Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kin- 
naird, his brother, Mr Joy, and Mr Hobhouse, 



I do not recollect to have exchanged a word with 
another Englishman since I left their country, 
and almost all these I had known before. The 
others, and God knows there were some hundreds, 
who bored me with letters or visits, I refused to 
have any communication with ; and shall be proud 
and happy when that wish becomes mutual." 

After a residence of three years at Venice, 
Lord Byron removed to Bavenna, towards the 
close of the year 1819. Here he wrote the Pro- 
phecy of Dante, which exhibited a new specimen 
of the astonishing variety of strength and ex- 
pansion of faculties he possessed and exercised. 
About the same time he wrote Sardanapalus, a 
tragedy; Cain, a mystery; and Heaven and Earth, 
a mystery. Though there are some obvious rea- 
sons which render Sardanapalus unfit for the 
English stage, it is, on the whole, the most 
splendid specimen which our language affords of 
that species of tragedy which was the exclusive 
object of Lord Byron's admiration. Cain is one 
of the productions which has subjected its noble 
author to the severest denunciations, on account 
of the crime of impiety alleged against it; as it 
seems to have a tendency to call in question the 
benevolence of Providence. In answer to the 
loud and general outcry which this production 
occasioned, Lord Byron observed, in a letter to 
his publisher, « If 'Cain' be blasphemous, 'Pa- 
radise Lost' is blasphemous, and the words of 
the Oxford gentleman, 'Evil, be thou my good,' 
are from that very poem from the mouth of 
Satan ; and is there any thing more in that of 
Lucifer in the mystery? 'Cain' is nothing more 
than a drama, not a piece of argument : if Lu- 
cifer and Caiu speak as the first rebel and first 
murderer may be supposed to speak, nearly all 
the rest of the personages talk also according to 
their characters; and the stronger passions have 
ever been permitted to the drama. I have 
avoided introducing the Deity as in scripture, 
though Milton does, and not very wisely either : 
but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain in- 
stead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings 
on the subject, by falling short of what all un- 
inspired men must fall short in, viz. giving an 
adequate notion of the effect of the presence of 
Jehovah. The old mysteries introJuced him libe- 
rally enough, and all this I avoided in the new one. » 

An event occurred at Bavenna during his 
lordship's stay there, which made a deep impres- 
sion on him, and to which he alludes in the fifth 
canto of Don Juan. The military commandant 
of the place, suspected of being secretly a Carbo- 
naro, but too powerful a man to be arrested, was 
assassinated opposite Lord Byron's palace. His 
lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the usual 
hour of exercise, when his horse started at the 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXV 



report of a gun : on looking up, Lord Byron per- 
ceived a man throw down a carbine and run 
away at full speed, and another man stretched 
upon the pavement a few yards distant ; it was 
the unhappy commandant. A crowd was soon 
collected, but no one ventured to offer the least 
assistance. Lord Byron directed his servant to 
lift up the bleeding body, and carry it into his pa- 
lace ; though it was represented to him that by 
doing so he would confirm the suspicion, which 
was already entertained, of his belonging to the 
same party. Such an apprehension could have 
had no effect on Byron's mind when an act of 
humanity was to be performed : he assisted in 
bearing the victim of assassination into the house, 
and putting him on a bed; but he was already 
dead from several wounds. « He appeared to have 
breathed his last without a struggle," said his 
lordship, when afterwards recounting the affair. 
« T never saw a countenance so calm. His adjutant 
followed the corpse into the house; I remember 
his lamentation over him : — 'Povero diavolo ! non 
aveva fatto male, anche ad an cane.'» The fol- 
lowing were the noble writer's poetical reflections 
(in Don Juan) on viewing the dead body : 

-I gozed (as oft I gazed the same) 



To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

But it was all a mystery : — here we are, 

And there \ve go : — but where 1 Five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far. 

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed? 

Can every element our elements mar? 

And air, earth, water, fire, — live, and we ilead ? 

We whose minds comprehend all things! — No more : 

But let us to the story as before. 

That a being of such capabilities should ab- 
stractedly, and without an attempt to throw the 
responsibility on a fictitious personage, have 
avowed such startling doubts, was a daring which, 
whatever might have been his private opinion, he 
ought not to have hazarded. 

« It is difficult," observes Captain Medwin, « to 
judge, from the contradictory nature of his writ- 
ings, what the religious opinions of Lord Byron 
really were. From the conversations I held with 
him, on the whole, I am inclined to think that, if 
he were occasionally sceptical, and thought it, as 
he says in Don Juan, 

A pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float 

Like Pyrrho, in a sea of speculation, 

yet his wavering never amounted to a disbelief 
in the divine Founder of Christianity. 

« Calling on him one day,» continues the Cap- 
tain, « we found him, as was sometimes the case, 
silent, dull, and sombre. At length he said : 
'Here is a little book somebody has sent me 
about Christianity, that has made me very un- 



comfortable; the reasoning seems to me very 
strong, the proofs are very staggering. I don't 
think you can answer it, Shelley, at least I am 
sure I can't, and what is more, I don't wish it.' 

« Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said: 'L — 

B thought the question set at rest in the 

History of the Decline and Fall, but I am not so 
easily convinced. It is not a matter of volition 
to unbelieve. Who likes to own that he has 
been a fool all his life, — to unlearn all that he 
has been taught in his youth, or can think that 
some of the best men that ever lived have been 
fools? I don't know why I am considered an 
unbeliever. I disowned the other day that I 
was of Shelley's school in metaphysics, though 
I admired his poetry ; not but what he has 
changed his mode of thinking very much since 
he wrote the notes to « Queen Mab, » which I 
Avas accused of having a hand in. I know, how- 
ever, that I am considered an infidel. My wife 
and sister, when they joined parties, sent me 
prayer-books. There Avas a Mr Mulock, who 
went about the continent preaching orthodoxy 
in politics and religion, a writer of bad sonnets, 
and a lecturer in worse prose, — he tried to con- 
vert me to some new sect of Christianity. He 
was a great anti-materialist, and abused Locke.' 

«On another occasion he said : 'I have just 
received a letter from a Mr Sheppard, inclosing 
a prayer made for my welfare by his wife a few 
days before her death. The letter states that he 
has had the misfortune to lose this amiable wo- 
man, Avho had seen me at Ramsgate, many years 
ago, rambling among the cliffs ; that she had 
been impressed Avith a sense of my irreligion 
from the tenor of my works, and had often 
prayed fervently for my conversion, particularly 
in her last moments. The prayer is beautifully 
Avritten. I like devotion in Avomen. She must 
have been a divine creature. I pity the man 
Avho has lost her ! I shall Avrite to him by re- 
turn of the courier, to condole with him, and 
tell him that Mrs S. need not have entertained 
any concern for my spiritual affairs, for that 
no man is more of a christian than I am, whatever 
my Avritings may have led her and others to 
suspect.'" 

In the autumn of 182 1, the noble bard re- 
moved to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his resi- 
dence in the Lanfranchi Palace, and engaged in 
an intrigue Avith the beautiful Guiccioli, wife 
of the count of that name, which connexion, Avith 
more than his usual constancy, he maintained 
for nearly three years ; during which period the 
countess Avas separated from her husband, on an 
application from the latter to the Pope. 

The folloAving is a sketch of this « fair en- 
chantress, » as taken at the time the liaison Avas 



\\\ 1 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



formed between her ami Byron. « The coun- 
tess is twenty-three years of age, though she ap- 
pears no more than seventeen or eighteen. Unlike 
most of the Italian women, her complexion is 
delicately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and lan- 
guishing, are shaded by the longest eye-lashes 
in the world; and her hair, which is ungathered 
on her head, plays over her falling shoulders in 
a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest 
auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much em- 
bonpoint for her height; but her bust is perfect. 
Her features want little of possessing a Grecian 
regularity of outline; and she has the most beau- 
tiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is impos- 
sible to see without admiring — to hear the Guic- 
cioli speak without being fascinated. Her amia- 
bility and gentleness show themselves in every 
intonation of her voice, which, and the music of 
her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to 
every thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem 
component parts of her nature. Notwithstanding 
that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that 
the exile and poverty of her aged father some- 
times affect her spirits, and throw a shade of 
melancholy on her countenance, which adds to 
the deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her 
! conversation is lively, without being learned; she 
I has read all the best authors of her own and the 
j French language. She often conceals what she 
j knows, from the fear of being thought to know 
too much, possibly from being aware that Lord 
Byron was not fond of blues. He is certainly 
very much attached to her, without being ac- 
tually in love. His description of the Georgioni 
in the Manfrini Palace at Venice is meant for the 
countess. The beautiful sonnet perfixed to the 
'Prophecy of Dante' was addressed to her. » 

The annexed lines, written by Byron when he 
was about to quit Venice to join the countess at 
Bavenna, will show the state of his feelings at 
that time : 

River » that rollest by the ancient -walls 

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by the brink, and there perchance recals 
A faint and fleeting memory of me : 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ? 

What do I sav — a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
Such as mv feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art, were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them; not for ever 
Thou overflow'st thy banks ; and not for aye 

Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away — 

' The Po. 



Eut left long wrecks behind them, and again 
Borne on our old unchanged career, we move ; 

ThoD teodest wildly onward to the main, 
And I to loving one I should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee ; I have look'd on thee 

Full of that thought, and from that moment ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her. 

Her bright eyes Mill be imaged in thy stream; 

Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 

That happy wave repass me in its flow. 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep I 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore j 
I near thy source, she bj the dark blue deep. 

But that which keepeth u-; apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave nor space of earth. 

But the distraction of a various lot, 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves a lady of the land, 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 

By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left mv clime : — I shall not be, 

In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, at least of thee. 

'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as 1 lived, and love as I have loved : 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 

And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved. 



It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried 
•ife than Lord Byron led at this period in the 
society of a few select friends. Billiards, conver- 
sation, or reading, fdled up the intervals till it 
was time to take the evening-drive, ride, and 
pistol -practice. He dined at half an hour after 
sun-set, then drove to Count Gamba's, the Coun- 
tess Guiccioli's father, passed several hours in 
her society, returned to his palace, and either 
read or wrote till two or three in the morning; 
occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water 
as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic com- 
plaint, to which he was, or fancied himself, 
subject. 

While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a serious 
affray occurred, in which he was personally con- 
cerned. Taking his usual ride, with some friends, 
one of them was violently jostled by a serjeant- 
major of hussars, who dashed, at full speed, 
| through the midst of the party. They pursued 
I and overtook him near the Piaggia gate ; but 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xxvii 



their remonstrances were answered only by abuse 
and menace, and an attempt on the part of the 
guard at the gate to arrest them. This occasioned 
a severe scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's 
party were wounded, as was also the hussar. The 
consequence was, that all Lord Byron's servants 
(who were warmly attached to him, and had 
shown great ardour in his defence) were banished 
from Pisa; and with them the Counts Gamba, 
father and son. Lord Byron was himself advised 
to leave it ; and as the countess accompanied her 
father, he soon after joined them at Leghorn, 
and passed six weeks at Monte Nero. His return 
to Pisa was occasioned by a new persecution of 
the Counts Gamba. An order was issued for 
them to leave the Tuscan states in four days ; 
and after their embarkation for Genoa, the 
countess and Lord Byron openly lived together 
at the Lanfranchi Palace. 

It was at Pisa that Byron wrote .< Werner, » a 
tragedy ; the « Deformed Transformed," and con- 
tinued his « Don Juan» to the end of the sixteenth 
canto. 

Lord Byron's acquaintance with Leigh Hunt, 
the late editor of the Examiner, originated in his 
grateful feeling for the manner in which Mr Hunt 
stood forward in his justification, at a time when 
the current of public opinion ran strongly against 
him. This feeling induced him to invite Mr Hunt 
to the Lanfranchi Palace, where a suite of apart- 
ments were fitted up for him. On his arrival in 
the spring of 1822, a periodical publication was 
projected, under the title of « The Liberal," of 
which Hunt was to be the editor, and to which 
Lord Byron and Percy Shelley (who was on terms 
of great intimacy with his lordship) were to con- 
tribute. Three numbers of the « Liberal- were 
published in London, when, in consequence of 
the unhappy fate of Mr Shelley (who perished in 
the Mediterranean by the upsetting of a boat), 
and of other discouraging circumstances, it was 
discontinued. 

Byron attended the funeral of his poet-friend, 
the following description of which, by a person 
who was present, is not without interest : — 

« 1 8th August, 1822. — On the occasion of 
Shelley's melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, and 
on the day of my arrival learnt that Lord Bvron 
was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in performing 
the last offices to his friend. We came to a spot 
marked by an old and withered trunk of a fir- 
tree, and near it, on the beach, stood a solitary 
hut covered with reeds. The situation was well 
calculated for a poet's grave. A few weeks before 
I had ridden with him and Lord Byron to this very 
spot, which I afterwards visited more than once. 
In front was a maguificent extent of the blue and 
windless Mediterranean, with the isles of Elba 



and Guyana, — Lord Byron's yacht at anchor in 
the offing : on the other side an almost bound- 
less extent of saudy wilderness, uncultivated and 
uninhabited, here and there interspersed in tufts 
with underwood, curved by the sea-breeze and 
stunted by the barren and dry nature of the soil 
in which it grew. At equal distances along the 
coast stood high square towers, for the double 
purpose of guarding the coast from smuggling, 
and enforcing the quarantine laws. This view 
was bounded by an immense extent of the Italian 
Alps, which are here particularly picturesque 
from their volcanic and manifold appearances, 
and which, being composed of white marble, give 
their summits the appearance of snow. As a 
foreground to this picture appeared as extraor- 
dinary a group : Lord Byron and Trelawney 
were seen standing over the burning pile, with 
some of the soldiers of the guard; and Leigh 
Hunt, whose feelings and nerves could not carry 
him through the scene of horror, lying back in 
the carriage, — the four post-horses ready to drop 
with the intensity of the noon-day sun. The 
stillness of all around was yet more felt by the 
shrill scream of a solitary curlew, which, per- 
haps attracted by the body, wheeled in such nar- 
row circles round the pile, that it might have 
been struck with the hand, and was so fearless 
that it could not be driven away. Looking at 
the corpse, Lord Byron said: — 'Why, that old 
black silk handkerchief retains its form better 
than that human body!' Scarcely was the ce- 
remony concluded, when Lord Byron, agitated 
by the spectacle he had witnessed, tried to dis- 
sipate in some degree the impression of it by his 
favourite recreation. He took off his clothes, 
therefore, and swam to the yacht, which was 
riding a few miles distant. The heat of the sun 
and checked perspiration threw him into a fever, 
which he felt coming on before he left the water, 
and which became more violent before he reached 
Pisa. On his return he immediately took a warm 
bath, and the next morning was perfectly reco- 
vered." 

The enmity between Byron and Southey, the 
poet-laureate, is as well known as that between 
Pope and Colley Cibber. Their politics were 
diametrically opposite, and the noble bard re- 
garded the bard of royalty as a renegado from 
his early principles. It was not, however, so 
much on account of political principles that the 
enmity between Byron and Southey was kept up. 
The peer, in his satire, had handled the epics of 
the laureate « too roughly," and this the latter 
deeply resented. Whilst travelling on the con- 
tinent, Southey observed Shelley's name in the 
Album, at Mont Anvert,with « Adsos» written after 
it, and an indignant comment in the same Ian- 



XXV in 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



guage written under it; also the names of some 
of Byron's other friends. The laureate, it is said, 
copied the names and the comment, and, on his 
return to England, reported the whole circum- 
stances, and hesitated not to conclude that Byron 
was of the same principles as his friends. In a 
poem he subsequently wrote, called the "Vision of 
Judgment," he stigmatized Lord Byron as the 
father of the "Satanic School of Poetry. » His 
lordship, in a note appended to the « Two Fos- 
cari,» retorted in a severe manner, and even 
permitted himself to ridicule Southey's wife, the 
sister of Mrs Coleridge, they having been at one 
time « milliners of Bath.» The laureate wrote an 
answer to this note in the Courier newspaper, 
which, when Byron saw it, enraged him so much 
that he consulted with his friends whether or not 
he ought to go to England to answer it personally. 
In cooler moments, however, he resolved to write 
the "Vision of Judgment, v a parody on Southey's, 
and it appeared in one of the numbers of the « Li- 
beral," on account of which Hunt, the publisher, 
was prosecuted by the « Constitutional Associa- 
tion," and found guilty. 

As our readers may be curious to know the 
rate at which Lord Byron was paid for his pro- 
ductions, we annex the following statement, by 
Mr Murray, the bookseller, of the sums given by 
him for the copy-rights of most of his lordship's 
works : 

Childe Harold, I. II 6ool. 

. HI i,5 7 5 

. IV 2,100 

Giaour 525 

Bride of Abydos 525 

Corsair 525 

Lara 700 

Siege of Corinth 525 

Parisina 525 

Lament of Tasso 3i5 

Manfred 3i5 

Beppo 525 

Don Juan, I. II i,525 

III. IV. V i,5 2 5 

Doge of Venice i,o5o 

Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari 1 , 1 00 

Mazeppa 525 

Prisoner of Chillon 525 

Sundries 4^o 

Total .... 1 5,45 51. 

Several years ago. Lord Byron presented his 
friend, Mr Thomas Moore, with his « Memoirs," 
written by himself, with an understanding that 
they were not to be published until after his 
death. Mr Moore, with the consent and at the 
desire of Lord Byron, sold the manuscript to 



Mr Murray, the bookseller, for the sum of two 
thousand guineas. The following statement by 
Mr Moore, will however show its fate. « Without 
entering into the respective claims of Mr Murray 
and myself to the property in these memoirs (a 
question which now that they are destroyed can 
be but of little moment to any one), it is sufficient 
to say that, believing the manuscript still to be 
mine, I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron's 
sister, Mrs Leigh, with the sole reservation of a 
protest against its total destruction ; at least, 
without pre\ious perusal and consultation among 
the parties. The majority of the persons present 
disagreed with this opinion, and it was the only 
point upon which there did exist any difference 
between us. The manuscript was accordingly 
torn and burnt before our eyes, and I immediately 
paid to Mr Murray, in the presence of the gentle- 
men assembled, two thousand guineas, with in- 
terest, etc., being the amount of what I owed him 
upon the security of my bond, and for which I 
now stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs 
Longman and Co. Since then, the family of 
Lord Byron have, in a manner highly honourable 
to themselves, proposed an arrangement, by 
which the sum thus paid to Mr Murray might be 
reimbursed me ; but from feelings and considera- 
tions, which it is unnecessary here to explain, I 
have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their 
offer." 

As is the case with many men in affluent cir- 
cumstances, Byron w T as at times more than ge- 
nerous; and at other times, what might be call- 
ed mean. He once borrowed 5oo/. in order to 
give it to the widow of one who had been his 
friend; he frequently dined on five pauls, and 
once gave his bills to a lady to be examined, 
because he thought he w r as cheated. He paid 
1000/. for a yacht, which he sold again for 3oo/., 
and refused to give the sailors their jackets. It 
ought, how r ever, to be observed, that generosity 
was natural to him, and that his avarice, if it can 
be so termed, was a mere whim or caprice of the 
moment — a character he could not Jong sustain. 
He once borrowed 100/. to give to Coleridge, the 
poet, the brother-in-law of Southey, when in 
distress. In his quarrel with the laureate he was 
provoked to allude to this circumstance, which 
certainly he ought not to have done. 

The following is a pleasing instance of delicacy 
and benevolence. 

A young lady of considerable talents, but who 
had never been able to succeed in turning them 
to any profitable account, was reduced to great 
hardships through the misfortunes of her family. 
The only persons from whom she could have 
hoped for relief were abroad, and urged on, more 
by the sufferings of those she held dear than by 



LIFE OF LORD 15YRON. 



xxix 



her own, she summoned up resolution to wait on 
Lord Byron at his apartments in the Albany, 
and solicit his subscription to a volume of poems : 
she had no previous knowledge of him except 
from his works, but from the boldness and feeling 
expressed in them, she concluded that he must 
be a man of kind heart and amiable disposition. 
She entered the apartment with faltering steps 
and a palpitating heart, but soon found courage 
to state her request, which she did in a simple 
and delicate manner : he heard it with marked 
attention and sympathy; and when she had done 
speaking, he, as if to divert her thoughts from a 
subject which could not but be painful to her, 
began to converse in words so fascinating and 
tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived he had 
been writing, until he put a slip of paper into her 
hand, saying it was his subscription, and that he 
most heartily wished her success. « But,» added 
he, « we are both young, and the world is very 
censorious, and so if I were to take any active part 
in procuring subscribers to your poems, I fear it 
would do you harm rather than good.» The 
young lady, overpowered by the prudence and 
delicacy of his conduct, took her leave ; and upon 
opening the paper in the street, which in her 
agitation she had not previously looked at, she 
found it was a draft upon his banker for fifty 
pounds ! 

Byron was a great admirer of the Waver ley 
novels, and never travelled without them. «They 
are,» said he to Captain Medwin one day, « a 
library in themselves, — a perfect literary trea- 
sure. 1 could read them once a year with new 
pleasure." During that morning he had been 
reading one of Sir Walter's novels, and delivered, 
according to Medwin, the following criticism. 
« How difficult it is to say any thing new ! Who 
was that voluptuary of antiquity, who offered a 
reward for a new pleasure? Perhaps all nature 
i and art could not supply a new idea.» 

The anxious and paternal tenderness Lord By- 
I ron felt for his daughter, is expressed with uu- 
\ equalled beauty and pathos in the first stanza of 
! the third canto of Childe Harold. « What do 
you think of Ada?» said he to Medwin, looking 
earnestly at his daughter's miniature, that hung 
by the side of his writing-table. « They tell me 
she is like me — but she has her mother's eyes. It 
is very odd that my mother was an only child; — I 
am an only child; my wife is an only child; and 
Ada is an only child. It is a singular coinci- 
dence ; that is the least that can be said of it. I 
can't help thinking it was destined to be so; and 
perhaps it is best. I was once anxious for a son; 
but, after our separation, was glad to have had a 
daughter; for it would have distressed me too 
much to have taken him away from Lady Byron, 



and I could not have trusted her with a son's 
education. I have no idea of boys being brought 
up by mothers. I suffered too much from that 
myself: and then, wandering about the world as 
I do, I could not take proper care of a child; 
otherwise I should not have left Allegra, poor 
little thing! at Bavenna. She has been a great 
resource to me, though 1 am not so fond of her 
as of Ada : and yet I mean to make their fortunes 
equal— there will be enough for them both. I 
have desired in my will that Allegra shall not 
marry an Englishman. The Irish and Scotch 
make better husbands than we do. You will 
think it was an odd fancy; but I was not in the 
best of humours with my countrymen at that 
moment — you know the reason. I am told that 
Ada is a little termagant; I hope not. I shall 
write to my sister to know if this is the case : per- 
haps I am wrong in letting Lady Byron have en- 
tirely her own way in her education. I hear that 
my name is not mentioned in her presence ; that a 
green curtain is always kept over my portrait, as 
over something forbidden; and that she is not to 
know that she has a father till she comes of age. 
Of course she will be taught to hate me; she will 
be brought up to it. Lady Byron is conscious of 
all this, and is afraid that I shall some day carry 
off her daughter by stealth or force. I might 
claim her of the Chancellor, without having 
recourse to either one or the other; but 1 had 
rather be unhappy myself than make her mother 
so; probably I shall never see her again." Here 
he opened his writing-desk and showed me some 
hair, which he told me was his child's. 

In the autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quitted 
Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remained 
throughout the winter. A letter written by his 
lordship, while at Genoa, is singularly honour- 
able to him, and is the more entitled to notice, 
as it tends to diminish the credibility of an asser- 
tion made since his death, that he could bear no 
rival in fame, and that he was animated with a 
bitter jealousy and hatred of any person who 
withdrew the public attention from himself. If 
there be a living being towards whom, according 
to that statement, Lord Byron could have enter- 
tained such a sentiment, it must have been the 
author of « Waverley. » And yet, in a letter to 
Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the follow- 
ing are the just and liberal expressions used by 
Lord Byron. 

« There is one part of your observations in the 
pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon : 
— it regards Walter Scott. You say that ' his 
character is little worthy of enthusiasm,' at the 
same time that you mention his productions in 
the manner they deserve. 1 have known Walter 
Scott long and well, and in occasional situations 

d 



\\\ 



LIFE OF LOUD 15 V HON. 



which call Forth the real character, and 1 can 
assure von that his character is worthy of admi- 
ration; — that, of all men, he is the most open, 
the most honourahle, the most amiable. With Ins 
politics I have nothing to do: they differ from 
mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak 
of them, l'ml he is perfectly sincere in them, 
and sincerity may he humhle, hut she cannot he 
servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct or 
soften that passage. You may, perhaps, attri- 
bute this officiousness of mine to a false affecta- 
tion of candour, as I happen to he a writer also. 
Attribute it to what motive you please, hut be- 
lieve the truth. 1 say that Walter Scott is as 
nearly a thorough good man as man can he, be- 
cause 1 know it by experience to be the case.» 

The motives which ultimately induced Lord 
Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, strug- 
gling for emancipation, are sufficiently obvious. 
It was in Greece that his high poetical faculties 
had been first fully developed. It was necessa- 
rily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of 
powerful and original intellect, of quick and 
sensible feelings, of varied information, and 
who, above all, was satiated with common 
enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared 
to him to be the formality and sameness of daily 
life. Dwelling upon that country, as it is clear 
from all Lord Byron's writings he did, with the 
fondest solicitude, and being an ardent, though, 
perhaps, not a very systematic lover of freedom, 
he could be no unconcerned spectator of its revo- 
lution : as soon as it seemed to him that his 
presence might be useful, he prepared to visit 
once more the shores of Greece. 

Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- 
rived in Cephalonia in the early part of August, 
1823, attended by a suite of six or seven friends, 
in an English vessel (the Hercules, Captain Scott), 
which he had chartered for the express purpose 
of taking him to Greece. His lordship had never 
seen any of the volcanic mountains, and for this 
purpose the vessel deviated from its regular 
course, in order to pass the island of Stromboli, 
and lay off that place a whole night, in the 
hopes of witnessing the usual phenomena, but, 
for the first time within the memory of man, 
the volcano emitted no fire. The disappointed 
poet was obliged to proceed, in no good humour 
with the fabled forge of Vulcan. 

Greece, though with a fair prospect of ultimate 
triumph, was at that time in an unsettled state. 
The third campaign had commenced, with several 
I instances of distinguished success — her arms were 
every where victorious, but her councils were 
distracted. Western Greece was in a critical 
situation, and although the heroic Marco Eotzaris 
had not fallen in vain, yet the glorious enterprise 



in which he perished only checked, but did not 
prevent the advance of the Turks towards Ana- 
tolica and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, 
worthy of the best days of Greece, hailed with 
transport ford Uyron's arrival in that country ; 
and his last act, before proceeding to the attack 
in which he fell, was to write a warm invitation 
to his lordship to come to Missolonghi. In his 
letter, which he addressed to a friend at Mis- 
solonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the first pro- 
ceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, which was the 
arming and provisioning of forty Suliotes, whom 
he sent to join in the defence of Missolonghi. 
After the battle Lord Byron transmitted bandages 
and medicines, of which he had brought a large 
store from Italy, and pecuniary succour to those 
who had been wounded. He had already made 
a generous offer to the government. He says, 
in a letter, « I offered to advance a thousand 
dollars a month, for the succour of Missolonghi, 
and the Suliotes under Botzaris (since killed); 
but the government have answered me through 

of this island, that they wish to confer 

with me previously, which is, in fact, saying 
they wish me to spend my money in some other 
direction. I will take care that it is for the public 
cause, otherwise I will not advance a para. The 
opposition say they want to cajole me, and the 
party in power say the others wish to seduce me; 
so between the two, I have a difficult part to play : 
however, I will have nothing to do with the fic- 
tions, unless to reconcile them, if possible." 

Lord Byron established himself for some time 
at the small village of Metaxata, in Cephalonia, 
and dispatched two friends, Mr Trelawney and 
Mr Hamilton Browue, with a letter to the Greek 
government, in order to collect intelligence as to 
the real state of things. His lordship's gene- 
rosity was almost daily exercised in his new 
neighbourhood. He provided for many Italian 
families in distress, and even indulged the people 
of the country in paying for the religious ceremo- 
nies which they deemed essential to their success. 
While at Metaxata, an embankment, near which 
several persons had been engaged digging, fell 
in, and buried some of them alive : he was at 
dinner when he heard of the accident; starting 
up from table, he ran to the spot, accompanied 
by his physician. The labourers employed in 
extricating their companions, soon became alarm- 
ed for themselves, and refused to go on, saying, 
they believed they had dug out all the bodies 
which had been covered by the rubbish. Byron 
endeavoured to force them to continue their 
exertions, but finding menaces in vain, he seized 
a spade and began to dig most zealously; when 
the peasantry joined him, and they succeeded in 
saving two more persons from certain death. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXXI 



hi the mean while, Lord Byron's friends pro- 
ceeded to Tripolitza, and found Colocotroni (the 
enemy of Mavrocordato, who had been com- 
pelled to flee from the presidency) in great 
power; his palace was filled with armed men, 
like the castle of some ancient feudal chief, and 
a good idea of his character may be formed 
from the language he held. He declared that 
he had told Mavrocordato that, unless he de- 
sisted from his intrigues, he would put him on 
an ass and whip him out of the Morea ; and that 
he had only been withheld from doing so by the 
representation of his friends, who had said that 
it would injure the cause. 

They next proceeded to Salamis, where the 
congress was sitting, and Mr Trelawney agreed 
to accompany Odysseus, a brave mountain chief, 
into Negropont. At this time the Greeks were 
preparing for many active enterprises. Marco 
Botzaris' brother, with his Suliotes, and Mavro- 
cordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, 
which, at that time (October, 1828), was in a 
very critical state, being blockaded both by land 
and sea. «There have been, » says Mr Trelawney, 
« thirty battles fought and won by the late Marco 
Botzaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who 
are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens 
will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut. 
A few thousand dollars would provide ships to 
relieve it ; a portion of this sum is raised — and I 
would coin my heart to save this key of Greece!" 
A report like this Was sufficient to show the point 
where succour was most needed, and Lord Byron's 
determination to relieve Missolonghi was still 
more decidedly confirmed by a letter which he 
received from Mavrocordato. 

Mavrocordato was at this time endeavouring 
to collect a fleet for the relief of Missolonghi, 
and Lord Byron generously offered to advance 
four hundred thousand piastres (about 12,000/.) 
to pay for fitting it out. In a letter in which he 
announced this noble intention, he alluded to the 
dissensions in Greece, and stated, that if these 
continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of 
assistance from abroad, would be at an end. 

«I must frankly confess," he says in his letter, 
« that unless union and order are confirmed, all 
hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all the as- 
sistance which the Greeks could expect from 
abroad, an assistance which might be neither 
trifling nor worthless, will be suspended or de- 
stroyed ; and, what is worse, the great powers 
of Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to 
Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in 
consenting to the establishment of an independent 
power, will be persuaded that the Greeks are un- 
able to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, 
themselves undertake to arrange your disorders 



in such a way as to blast the brightest hopes you 
indulge, and that are indulged by your friends. 
And allow me to.add once for all, I desire the 
well-being of Greece, and nothing else; I will do 
all I can to secure it; but I cannot consent — I 
never will consent, to the English public or 
English individuals being deceived as to the real 
state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, de- 
pends on you; you have fought gloriously : act 
honourably towards your fellow-citizens and to- 
wards the world, and then it will no more be 
said, as has been repeated for two thousand years 
with the Roman historian, that Philopcemen was 
the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself 
(and it is difficult to guard against it in so dif- 
ficult a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with 
the patriot Greek in peace, after you have exter- 
minated him in war. » 

The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evi- 
dently gave great pain to Lord Byron, whose 
sensibility was keenly affected by the slightest 
circumstance which he considered likely to retard 
the deliverance of Greece. « For my part, » he 
observes in another of his letters, « I will stick 
by the cause while a plank remains which can be 
honourably clung to; if I quit it, it will be by the 
Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies, or the 
holier Mussulmans." fn a letter to his banker 
at Cephalonia he says : « I hope things here will 
go well, some time or other; I will stick by the 
cause as long as a cause exists." 

His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst 



the d( 



?p anxiety 



he felt for the success of the 



Greeks. He ridiculed with great pleasantry some 
of the supplies which had been sent out from 
England bv the Greek committee. In one of his 
letters, after alluding to his having advanced 
4,ooo/., and expecting to be called on for 4,000/. 
more, he says : « How can I refuse, if they (the 
Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should hap- 
pen to be in their company? I therefore request 
and require that you should apprise my trusty 
and trust-worthy trustee and banker, and crown 
and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kimiaird the honour- 
able, that he prepare all monies of mine, includ- 
ing the purchase-money of Rochdale manor, 
and mine income for the year A. D. 1824, to an- 
swer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, 
for the good cause, in good and lawful money of 
Great Britain, etc. etc. etc. May you live a 
thousand years! which is nine hundred and 
ninety-nine longer than the Spanish Cortes con- 
stitution." 

When every thing was arranged two Ionian 
vessels were ordered, and, embarking his horses 
and effects, Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on 
the 29th of December. At Zante, his lordship 
took a considerable quantity of specie on board , 



XXXII 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



and proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two acci- 
dents occurred in this short passage. Count 
Gam ha, who accompanied his lordship from 
Leghorn, had heen charged with the vessel in 
which the horses and part of the money were 
embarked. When off Chiarenza, a point which 
lies between '/ante and the place of their desti- 
nation, they were surprised at daylight on finding 
themselves under the hows of a Turkish frigate. 
Owing, however, to the activity displayed on 
board Lord Byron's vessel, and her superior 
sailing, she escaped, while the other was fired at, 
brought to, and carried into Patras. Count 
Gamha and his companions being taken before 
Yusuff Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of 
some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary 
chief had sacrificed the preceding year at Pre- 
visa ; and their fears would most probably have 
been realized, had it not been for the presence 
of mind displayed hy the count, who, assuming 
an air of hauteur and indifference, accused the 
captain of the frigate of a scandalous breach of 
neutrality, in firing at and detaining a vessel 
under English colours; and concluded by inform- 
ing Yusuff, that he mjght expect the vengeance 
of the British government in thus interrupting a 
nobleman who was merely on his travels, and 
bound to Calamos. The Turkish chief, on 
recognising in the master of the vessel a person 
who had saved his life in the Black Sea fifteen 
years before, not only consented to the vessel's 
release, but treated the whole of the passengers 
with the utmost attention, and even urged them 
to take a day's shooting in the neighbourhood. 

Owing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's vessel 
was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, a clus- 
ter of rocks within a few miles of Missolonghi, 
and while detained here, he was in considerable 
danger of being captured by the Turks. 

lord Byron was received at Missolonghi with 
enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No mark of 
honour or welcome which the Greeks could devise 
was omitted. The ships anchored off the fortress 
fired a salute as he passed. Prince Mavrocordato, 
and all the authorities, with the troops and the 
population, met him on his landing, and accom- 
panied him to the house which had been prepared 
for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude and 
the discharge of cannon. 

One of the first objects to which he turned his 
attention was to mitigate the ferocity with which 
the war had been carried on. The very day of 
his lordship's arrival was signalised by his re- 
scuing a Turk, who had fallen into the hands of 
some Greek sailors. The individual thus saved, 
having been clothed by his orders, was kept in 
the house until an opportunity occurred of send- 
ing him to Patras. Nor had his lordship been 



long at Missolonghi, before an opportunity pre- 
sented itself for showing his sense of Yusuff Pacha's 
moderation in releasing Count Gamba. Hearing 
that there were four Turkish prisoners in the 
town, he requested that they might be placed in 
his hands. This being immediately granted, he 
sent them to Patras, with a letter addressed to the 
Turkish chief, expressing his hope that the pri- 
soners thenceforward taken on both sides would 
be treated with humanity. This act was follow- 
ed by another equally praiseworthy, which proved 
how anxious Lord Byron felt to give a new turn 
to the system of warfare hitherto pursued. A 
Greek cruiser having captured a Turkish boat, 
in which there was a number of passengers, 
chiefly women and children, they were also placed 
in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular re- 
quest; upon which a vessel was immediately 
hired, and the whole of them, to the number of 
twenty-four, were sent to Previsa, provided with 
every requisite for their comfort during the pas- 
sage. The Turkish governor of Previsa thanked 
his lordship, and assured him, that he would 
take care equal attention should be in future 
shown to the Greeks who might become pri- 
soners. 

Another grand object with Lord Byron, and 
one which he never ceased to forward with the 
most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile the 
quarrels of the native chiefs, to make them 
friendly and confiding towards one another, and 
submissive to the orders of the government. He 
had neither time nor opportunity to carry this 
point to any great extent : some good was, how- 
ever, done. 

Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated 
with military ardour. After paying the fleet, 
which, indeed, had only come out under the ex- 
pectation of receiving its arrears from the loan 
which he promised to make to the provisional 
government, he set about forming a brigade of 
Suliotes. Five hundred of these, the bravest and 
most resolute of the soldiers of Greece, were taken 
into his pay on the ist of January, 1824. An 
expedition against Lepanto was proposed, of which 
the command was given to Lord Byron. This ex- 
pedition, however, had to experience delay and 
disappointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that 
they had found a patron whose wealth was inex- 
haustible, and whose generosity was boundless, 
determined to make the most of the occasion, and 
proceeded to the most extravagant demands on 
their leader for arrears, and under other pre- 
tences. These mountainers, untameable in the 
field, and unmanageable in a town, were, at this 
moment, peculiarly disposed to be obstinate, 
riotous, and mercenary. They had been chiefly 
instrumental in preserving Missolonghi when be- 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXXUi 



sieged the previous autumn by the Turks; had 
been driven from their abodes; and the whole of 
their families were, at this time, in the town, des- 
titute of either home or sufficient supplies. Of 
turbulent and reckless character, they kept the 
place in awe ; and Mavrocordato having, Unlike 
the other captains, no soldiers of his own, was 
glad to find a body of valiant mercenaries, espe- 
cially if paid for out of the funds of another, 
and, consequently, was not disposed to treat them 
with harshness. Within a fortnight after Lord 
Byron's arrival, a burgher refusing to quarter 
some Suliotes, who rudely demanded entrance 
into his house,.' was killed, and a riot ensued, 
in which some lives were lost. Lord Byron's 
impatient spirit could ill brook the delay of a 
favourite scheme, but he saw, with the utmost 
chagrin, that the state of his troops was such as 
to render any attempt to lead them out at that 
time impracticable. 

The project of proceeding against Lepaiito be- 
ing thus suspended, at a moment when Lord By- 
ron's enthusiasm was at its height", and when he 
had fully calculated on striking a blow which 
could not fail to be of the utmost service to the 
Greek cause, the unlooked-for disappointment 
preyed on his spirits, and produced a degree of 
irritability which, if it was not the sole cause, 
contributed greatly to a severe fit of epilepsy, 
with which he was attacked on the i5th of Fe- 
bruary. His lordship was sitting in the apart- 
ment of Colonel Stanhope, talking in a jocular 
manner with Mr Parry, the engineer, when it 
was observed, from occasional and rapid changes 
in his countenance, that he was suffering under 
some strong emotion. On a suddenhe complained 
of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but 
finding himself unable to walk, he cried out for 
assistance. He then fell into a state of nervous 
and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a 
bed. For some minutes his countenance was 
much distorted. He however quickly recovered 
his senses, his speech returned, and he soon ap- 
peared perfectly well, although enfeebled and 
exhausted by the violence of the struggle. During 
the fit, he behaved with his usual extraordinary 
firmness, and his efforts in contending with, and 
attempting to master, the disease, are described 
as gigantic. In the course of the month, the 
attack was repeated four times; the violence of the 
disorder, at length, yielded to the remedies which 
his physicians advised, such as bleeding, cold 
bathing, perfect relaxation of mind, etc., and he 
gradually recovered. An accident, however, hap- 
pened a few days after his first illness, which was 
ill calculated to aid the efforts of his medical ad- 
visers. A Suliote, accompanied by another man. 
aad the late Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked 



into the Seraglio, a place which, before Lord 
Byron's arrival, had been used as a sort of for- 
tress and barrack for the Suliotes, and out of 
which they were ejected with great difficulty for 
the reception of the committee-stores, and for the 
occupation of the engineers, who required it for 
a laboratory. The sentinel on guard ordered 
the Suliote to retire, which being a species of mo- 
tion to which Suliotes are not accustomed, the man 
carelessly advanced ; upon which the Serjeant of 
the guard (a German) demanded his business, and 
receiving no satisfactory answer, pushed him 
back. These wild warriors, who will dream for 
years of a blow if revenge is out of their power, 
are not slow to resent even a push. The Suliote 
struck again, the serjeant and he closed and 
struggled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from 
his belt; the serjeant wrenched it out of his 
hand, and blew the powder out of the pan. At 
this moment Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the 
fray, came up, and ordered the man to be taken 
to the guard-room. The Suliote was then dis- 
posed to depart, and would have done so if the 
serjeant would have permitted him. Unfortu- 
nately, Captain Sass did not confine himself to 
merely giving the order for his arrest ; for when 
the Suliote struggled to get away, Captain Sass 
drew his sword and struck him with the flat part 
of it; whereupon the enraged Greek flew upon 
him, with a pistol in one hand and the sabre in 
the other, and at the same moment nearly cut 
off the Captain's right arm, and shot him through 
the head. Captain Sass, who was remarkable for 
his mild and courageous character, expired in a 
few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of dis- 
tinguished bravery. This was a serious affair, 
and great apprehensions were entertained that it 
would not end here. The. Suliotes refused to sur- 
render the man to justice, alleging that he had 
been struck, which, in Suliote law, justifies all 
the consequences which may follow. 

In a letter written a few days after Lord By- 
ron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he speaks of 
himself as rapidly recovering. « I am a good deal 
better," he observes, "though of course weakly. 
The leeches took too much blood from my tem- 
ples the day after, and there was some difficulty 
in stopping it; but I have been up daily, and not 
in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken 
a warm bath, and live as temperately as well can 
be, without any liquid but water, and without 
any animal food.» After adverting to some other 
subjects, the letter thus concludes : "Matters are 
here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, foreign- 
ers, etc. ; but I still hope better things, and will 
stand by the cause as long as my health and cir- 
cumstances will permit me to be supposed useful. » 
Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in 



LIFE QF LORD BYRON. 



health, his friends felt, from the first, thai he 
oaght to try a change of air. RIksolonghi is a 

flat, marshy, and pestilential place, and, except 
for purposes of utility, never would have been 
selected for his residence. A gentleman of /ante 
wrote to him early in .March, to induce him to 
return to that island for a time. To his letter the 
following answer was received : — 

« I am extremely obliged by your offer of your 
country-house, as for all other kindness, in case 
my health should require my removal; hut I 
cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my 
being of (even supposed) utility, There is a stake 
worth millions such as I am, and while I can 
stand at all, I must stand by the cause. While 
I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dis- | 
sensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves : 
hut allowance must he made for them hy all rea- 
sonahle people." 

It may he well imagined, after so severe a fit ! 
of illness, and that in a great measure brought on 
by the conduct of the troops he had taken into 
his pay, and treated with the utmost generosity, 
that Lord Byron was in no humour to pursue his 
scheme against Lepanto, even supposing that his 
state of health had been such as to hear the fa- 
tigue of a campaign in Greece. The Suliotes, 
however, showed some signs of repentance, and 
offered to place themselves at his lordship's dis- 
posal. But still they had an objection to the na- 
tare of the service : « they would not fight against 
stone walls!.- It is not surprising that the ex- 
; pedition to Lepanto was no longer thought of. 

The following anecdotes, are taken from Capt. , 
; Parry's « Last Days of Lord Byron; » a work 
which seems from its plain and unvarnished style 
to bear the impress of truth. 

In speaking of the Greek Committee one day, 
his lordship said— «I conceive that I have been' 
already grossly ill-treated by the committee. In 
Italy, Mr Blaquiere, their agent, informed me j 
that every requisite supply would be forwarded 
with all -dispatch. I was disposed to come to 
Greece, but I hastened my departure in conse- 
; quence of earnest solicitations. No time was to , 
be lost, I was told, and Mr Blaquiere, instead of 
waiting on me at his return from Greece, left a : 
paltry note, which gave me no information what- , 
ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail Jto 
mention my surprise at his conduct; but it has 
been all of a piece. I wish the acting committee 
had had some of the trouble which has fallen on 
me since my arrival here ; they would have been 
more prompt in their proceedings, and would 
have known better what the country stood in 
need of. They would not have delayed the sup- 
plies a day, nor have sent out German officers, I 
j poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for j 

i I 



my assistance. I am a plain man, and cannot com- 
prehend the use of printing-presses to a people 
who do not read. Here the committee have sent 
supplies of maps, 1 suppose, that I may teach the 
young mountaineers geography. Here are bugle- 
horns, without bugle-men, and it is a chance if 
we can find any body in Greece to blow them. 
Books are sent to a people who want guns: they 
' ask for a sword, and the committee give them 
j the lever of a printing-press. Heavens! one 
j would think the committee meant to inculcate 
patience and submission, and to condemn resist- 
, ance. Some materials for constructing fortifica- 
: tions they have sent, but they have chosen their 
people so ill, that the work is deserted, and not 
one para have they sent to procure other la- 
bourers. Their secretary, Mr Bowling, was dis- 
posed, I believe, to claim the privilege of an ac- 
quaintance with me. He wrote me a long letter 
about the classic land of freedom, the birth-place 
of the arts, the cradle of genius, the habitation 
of the gods, the heaven of poets, and a great 
many such fine things. I was obliged to answer 
him, and I scrawled some nonsense in reply to 
his nonsense; but I fancy I shall get no more 
such epistles. When I came to the conclusion of 
the poetry part of my letter, I wrote, ' so much 
for blarney, now for business.' I have notsince 
heard in the same strain from Mr Bowring.» 

n My future intentions, » continued he, « as to 
Greece, may be explained in a few words : I will 
remain here till she is secure against the Turks, 
or till she has fallen under their power. All my 
income shall be spent in her service; but, unless 
driven by some great necessity, I will not touch 
a farthing of the sum intended for my sister's 
children. Whatever I can accomplish with my 
income, and my personal exertions, shall be 
cheerfully done. When Greece is secure against 
external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle 
their government as they like. One service 
more, and an eminent service it will be, I think 
I may perform for them. You, Parry, shall have 
a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel; 
the Greeks shall invest me with the character of 
their ambassador or agent; I will go to the 
United States , and procure that free and enlight- 
ened government to set the example of recognis- 
ing the federation of Greece as an independent 
state. This done, England must follow the ex- 
ample, and then the fate of Greece will be per- 
manently fixed, and she will enter into all her 
rights, as a member of the great commonwealth 
of Christian Europe." 

«This,» observes Captain Parry, in his plain 
and manly manner, « was Lord Byron's hope, 
and this was to be his last project in favour of 
Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambition 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xxxv 



entered, more than that just and proper one, the 
basis of all virtue, and the distinguished charac- 
teristic of an honourable mind— the hope of gain- 
ing the approbation of good men. As an author, 
he had already attained the pinnacle of popula- 
rity and of fame; but this did not satisfy his no- 
ble ambition. He hastened to Greece, with a de- 
votion to liberty, and a zeal in favour of the 
oppressed, as pure as ever shone in the bosom of 
a knight in the purest days of chivalry, to gain 
the reputation of an unsullied warrior, and of a 
disinterested statesman. He was her unpaid, but 
the blessings of all Greece, and the high honours 
his own countrymen bestow on his memory, 
bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was 
not her unrewarded champion. •> 

Lord Byron's address was affable and courteous ; 
his manners, when in good humour, and desir- 
ous of being well with his guest, were fascinating 
in the extreme. He was open to a fault— a cha- 
racteristic probably the result of his fearlessness 
and independence of the world ; but his friends 
were obliged to be upon their guard with him. 
He was the worst person in the world to confide 
a secret to ; and if a charge against any one was 
mentioned to him, it was probably the first com- 
munication he made to the person in question. 
He hated scandal and tittle-tattle, and loved the 
manly straight-forward course : he would har- 
bour no doubts, and never live with another with 
suspicions in his bosom. He detested a lie — 
nothing enraged him so much. He had consider- 
able tact in detecting untruth; he avoided the 
timid driveller, and generally chose his com- 
panions among the lovers of sincerity and cam- 
dour. People sometimes conceal the truth from 
a dread of giving otfence ; — Lord Byron was 
above all fear of this sort: he flinched from telling 
no one what he thought to his face ; falsehood is 
not the vice of the powerful : the Greek slave 
lies, the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his ad- 
herence to truth. The anecdote that follows, 
told by Parry, is highly characteristic : — 

« When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape 
Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day or- 
dered by Lord Byron to accompany him to the 
mouth of the harbour to inspect the fortifica- 
tions, in order to make a report on the state 
they were in. He and I were in his own punt, 
a little boat which he had, rowed by a boy ; and 
in a large boat, accompanying us, were Prince 
Mavrocordato and his attendants. As I was 
viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet atten- 
tively, and reflecting on its powers, and our 
means of defence ; and looking, on the other, at 
Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants, perfect- 
ly unconcerned, smoking their pipes and gossip- 
ing, as if Greece were liberated and at peace and 



Missolonghi in a state of complete security, I 
could not help giving vent to a feeling of con- 
tempt and indignation. ' What is the matter,' said 
his lordship, appearing to be very serious, 'what 
makes you so angry, Parry ?' 'I am not angry,' 
I replied, 'my lord, but somewhat indignant. 
The Turks, if they were not the most stupid 
wretches breathing, might take the fort of Vasa- 
ladi, by means of two pinnaces, any night they 
pleased : they have only to approach it with muf- 
fled oars ; they will not be heard , I will answer 
for their not being seen ; and they may storm it 
in a few minutes. With eight gun-boats, pro- 
perly armed with 24-pounders, they might batter 
both Missolonghi and Anatolica to the ground. 
And there sits the old gentlewoman, Prince 
Mavrocordato and his troop , to whom I applied 
an epithet I will not here repeat, as if they were 
all perfectly safe. They know their powers of de- 
fence are inadequate, and they have no means of 
improving them. If I were in their place, I 
should be in a fever at the thought of my own 
incapacity and ignorance, and I should burn 
with impatience to attempt the destruction of 
those stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks and 
Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbecility, 
of each other.' I had scarcely explained myself 
fully, when his lordship ordered our boat to be 
placed alongside the other, and actually related 
our whole conversation to the prince. In doing 
it, however, he took on himself the task of pacify- 
ing both the prince and me, and though I was 
at first very angry, and the prince, I believe, 
very much annoyed, he succeeded. Mavrocor- 
dato afterwards showed no dissatisfaction with 
me, and I prized Lord Byron's regard too much, 
to remain long displeased with a proceeding 
which was only an unpleasant manner of reprov- 
ing us both.» 

« On one occasion (which we before slightly al- 
luded to) he had saved twenty-four Turkish wo- 
men and children from slavery and all its ac- 
companying horrors. I was summoned to attend 
him and receive his orders, that every thing 
should be done which might contribute to their 
comfort. He was seated on a cushion at the up- 
per end of the room, the women and children 
were standing before him, with their eyes fixed 
steadily on him; and on his right hand was his 
interpreter, who was extracting from the women 
a narrative of their sufferings. One of them, ap- 
parently about thirty years of age, possessing 
great vivacity, and whose manners and dress, 
though she was then dirty and disfigured, indi- 
cated that she was superior in rank and condition 
to her companions, was spokeswoman for the 
whole. I admired the good order the others pre- 
served, never interfering with the explanation or 



XXXVI 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



interrupting the single speaker. 1 also admired 
the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- 
plained every thing they said, so as to make it 
almost appear that there was but one speaker. — 
After a short time, it was evident that what Lord 
Byron was hearing affected his feelings — his 
countenance changed, his colour went and came, 
and I thought he was ready to weep. But he had 
on all occasions a ready and peculiar knack in 
turning conversation from any disagreeable or 
unpleasant subject; and he had recourse to this 
expedient. He rose up suddenly, and turning 
round on his heel, as was his wont, he said some- 
thing quickly to his interpreter, who immediate- 
ly repeated it to the women. All eyes were in- 
stantly fixed on me, and one of the party, a 
young and beautiful woman, spoke very warmly. 
Lord Byron seemed satisfied , and said they might 
retire. The women all slipped off their shoes in 
an instant, and going up to his lordship, each in 
succession, accompanied by their children, kissed 
his hand fervently, invoked, in the Turkish man- 
ner, a blessing both on his head and heart, and 
then quitted the room. This was too much for 
Lord Byron, and he turned his face away to con- 
ceal his emotion." 

« One of Lord Byron's household had several 
times involved himself and his master in per- 
plexity and trouble, by his unrestrained attach- 
ment to women. In Greece this had been very 
annoying, and induced Lord. Byron to think of a 
means of curing it. A young Suliote of the guard 
was accordingly dressed up like a woman, and 
instructed to place himself in the way of the 
amorous swain. The bait took, and after some 
communication, but rather by signs than by 
words, for the pair did not understand each 
other's language, the sham lady was carefully 
conducted by the gallant to one of Lord Byron's 
apartments. Here the couple were surprised by 
an enraged Suliote, a husband provided for the 
occasion, accompanied by half a dozen of his 
eomrades, whose presence and threats terrified 
the poor lacquey almost out of his senses. The 
noise of course brought Lord Byron to the spot, 
to laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue 
him from the effects of his terror." 

« A few days after the earthquake, which took 
place on the 21st of February, as we were all sit- 
ting at table in the evening, we were suddenly 
alarmed by a noise and a shaking of the house, 
somewhat similar to that which we had experi- 
enced when the earthquake occurred. Of course 
all started from their places, and there was the 
same kind of confusion as on the former evening, 
at which Byron, who was present, laughed im- 
moderately ; we were re-assured by this, and soon 



learnt that the whole was a method he had 
adopted to sport with our fears. » 

« The regiment, or rather the brigade, we 
formed, can be described only as Byron himself 
descrihes it. There was a Greek tailor, who had 
been in the British service in the Ionian Islands, 
where he had married an Italian woman. This 
lady, knowing something of the military service, 
petitioned Lord Byron to appoint her husband 
master-tailor of the hrigade. The suggestion was 
useful, and this part of her petition was imme- 
diately granted. At the same time, however, she 
solicited that she might be permitted to raise a 
corps of women, to be placed under her orders, 
to accompany the regiment. She stipulated for 
free quarters and rations for them, but rejected 
all claim for pay. They were to be free of all 
incumbrances, and were to wash, sew, cook, and 
otherwise provide for the men. The proposition 
pleased Lord Byron, and, stating the matter tome, 
he said he hoped I should have no objection. I 
had been accustomed to see women accompany 
the English army, andlknew that, though some- 
times an incumbrance, they were on the whole 
more beneficial than otherwise. In Greece there 
were many circumstances which would make 
their services extremely valuable, and I gave my 
consent to the measure. The tailor's wife did 
accordingly recruit a considerable number of 
unincumbered women, of almost all nations, but 
principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and Ne- 
gresses. ' I was afraid,' said Lord Byron, • when 
I mentioned this matter to you, you would be 
crusty, and oppose it, — it is the very thing. Let 
me see, my corps outdoes Falstaff's : there are 
English, Germans, French, Maltese, Bagusians, 
Italians, Neapolitans, Transylvanians, Bussians, 
Suliotes, Moreotes, and Western Greeks in front, 
and, to bring up the rear, the tailor's wife and 
her troop. Glorious Apollo ! no general had ever 
before such an army.'» 

« Lord Byron had a black groom with him in 
Greece, an American by birth, to whom he was 
very partial. He always insisted on this man's 
calling him Massa, whenever he spoke to him. 
On one occasion, the groom met with two women 
of his own complexion, who had been slaves to 
the Turks and liberated, but had been left al- 
most to starve when the Greeks had risen on 
their tyrants. Being of the same colour was a 
bond of sympathy between them and the groom, 
and he applied to me to give both these women 
quarters in the Seraglio. I granted the appli- 
cation, and mentioned it to Lord Byron, who 
laughed at the gallantry of his groom, and or- 
dered that he should be brought before him at 
ten o'clock the next day, to answer for his pre- 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xxxvii 



sumption in making such an application. At ten 
o'clock, accordingly, he attended his master with 
great trembling and fear, but stuttered so when 
he attempted to speak, that he could not make 
himself understood; Lord Byron endeavouring, 
almost in vain, to preserve his gravity, reproved 
him severely for his presumption. Blacky stut- 
tered a thousand excuses, and was ready to do 
any thing to appease his massa's anger. His great 
yellow eyes wide open, he trembling from head 
to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his 
visible dread — all tended to provoke laughter; 
and Lord Byron, fearing his own dignity would 
be hove overboard, told him to hold his tongue, 
and listen to his sentence. I was commanded to 
enter it in his memorandum-book, and then he 
pronounced in a solemn tone of voice, while 
Elacky stood aghast, expecting some severe pu- 
nishment, the following doom : ' My determina- 
tion is, that the children born of these black 
women, of which you may be the father, shall be 
my property, and I will maintain them. What 
say you?' 'Go— Go— God bless you, massa, 
may you live great while,' stuttered out the 
groom, and sallied forth to tell the good news to 
the two distressed women. » 

The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this time 
may be seen from the following order, which he 
gave his superintendant of the household, for the 
daily expenses of^his own table. It amounts to 
no more than one piastre. 

Paras. 
Bread, a pound and a half . . . i5 

Wine 7 

Fish 1 5 

Olives ......... 3 

4o 

This was his dinner; his breakfast consisted of a 
I single dish of tea, without milk or sugar. 

The circumstances that attended the death of 
this illustrious and noble-minded man, are de- 
scribed in the following plain and simple state- 
ment by his faithful valet and constant follower , 
Mr Fletcher: — 

« My masteiy> says Mr Fletcher, « continued 
his usual custom of riding daily when the wea- 
ther would permit, until the 9th of April. But 
on that ill-fated day he got very wet, and on his 
return home his lordship changed the whole of 
his dress; but he had been too long in his wet 
clothes, and the cold, of which he had complain- 
ed more or less ever since we left Cephalonia, 
made this attack be more severely felt. Though 
rather feverish during the night, his lordship 
slept pretty well, but complained in the morning 
of a pain in his bones, and a head-ache : this did 



not, however, prevent him from taking a ride in 
the afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his 
last. On his return, my master said that the 
saddle was not perfectly dry, from being so wet 
the day before, and observed that he thought it 
had made him worse. His lordship was again 
visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry 
to perceive, ou the next morning, that his illness 
appeared to be increasing. He was very low, and 
complained of not having had any sleep dur- 
ing the night. His lordship's appetite- was also 
quite gone. I prepared a little arrow-root, of 
which he took three or four spoonfuls, saying it 
was very good, but he could take no more. It 
was not till the third day, the 12th, that 1 began 
to be alarmed for ray master. In all his former 
colds he always slept well, andwas never affected 
by this slow fever. I therefore went to Dr Bruno 
and Mr Millingen, the two medical attendants, 
and inquired minutely into every circumstance 
connected with my master's present illness : both 
replied that there was no danger, and I might 
make myself perfectly easy on the subject, for all 
would be well in a few days. This was on the 
1 3th. On the following day, I found my master 
in such a state, that I could not feel happy 
without supplicating that he would send to 
Zante for Dr Thomas. After expressing my 
fears lest his lordship should get worse, he de- 
sired me to consult the doctors, which I did, and 
was told there was no occasion for calling in any 
person, as they hoped all would be well in a few 
days. Here I should remark, that his lordship 
repeatedly said, in the course of the day, he was 
sure the doctors did not understand his disease; 
to which I answered, 'Then, my lord, have other 
advice by all means.' 'They tell me,' said his 
lordship, 'that it is only a common cold, which, 
you know, I have had a thousand times.' 'I am 
sure, my lord,' said I, ' that you never had one 
of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never had,' 
was his lordship's answer. I repeated my suppli- 
cations that Dr Thomas should be sent for, on 
the 1 5th, and was again assured that my master 
would be better in two or three days. After 
these confident assurances, I did not renew my 
entreaties until it was too late. With respect to 
the medicines that were given to my master, I 
could not persuade myself that those of a strong 
purgative nature were the best adapted for his 
complaint, concluding that, as he had nothing ou 
his stomach, the only effect would be to create 
pain; indeed, this must have been the case with 
a person in perfect health. The whole nourish- 
ment taken by my master, for the last eight days, 
consisted of a small quantity of broth, at two or 
three different times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- 
root on the 1 8th, the day before his death. The 

e 



XXX VI 11 



LIFE OF LORD BY HON. 



first time I heard of there being any intention of 
bleediug his lordship was on the 1 5th, when it 
was proposed bv Dr Bruno, but objected to at 
first by my master, who asked Mr Millin;;eii if 
there was any great reason for taking blood? 
The latter replied that it might be of service, 
but added it might be deferred till the next day; 
and accordingly, my master was bled in the right 
arm on the evening of the 16th, and a pound of 
blood was taken. I observed, at the time, that it 
had a most inflamed appearance. Dr Bruno now 
began to say, that he had frequently ur(;ed my 
master to be bled, but that he always refused. 
A long dispute now arose about the time that 
had been lost, and the necessity of sending for 
medical aid to Zante; upon which I was in- 
formed, for the first time, that it would be of no 
use, as my master would be better or no more 
before the arrival of Dr Thomas. His lordship 
continued to get worse, but Dr Bruno said, he 
thought letting blood again would save his life ; 
and I lost no time in telling my master how ne- 
cessary it was to comply with the doctor's wishes. 
To this be replied by saying, he feared they 
knew nothing about his disorder; and then, 
stretching out his arm, said, ' Here, take my arm 
and do whatever you like.' His lordship con- 
tinued to get weaker, and on the 17 th he was 
bled twice in the morning, and at two o'clock 
in the afternoon ; the bleeding at both times 
was followed by fainting fits, and he would have 
fallen down more than once had I not caught 
him in my arms. In order to prevent such an 
accident, I took care not to permit his lordship 
to stir without supporting him. On this day my 
master said to me twice, ' I cannot sleep, and 
you well know I have not been able to sleep for 
more than a week; I know,' added his lordship, 
' that a man can only be a certain time without 
sleep, and then he must go mad without any one 
being able to save him; and I would teu times 
sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not 
afraid of dying— I am more fit to die than people 
think!' 

« I do not, however, believe that his lordship 
had any apprehension of his fate till the day 
after the. 1 8th, when he said, 'I fear you and 
Tita will be ill by sitting continually night and 
day.' I answered, « We shall never leave your 
lordship till you are better.' As my master had 
a slight fit of delirium on the 16th, I took care 
to remove the pistol and stiletto, which had hi- 
therto been kept at his bedside in the night. 
On the 1 8th his lordship addressed me fre- 
quently, and seemed to be very much dissatisfied 
with his medical treatment. I then said, < Do 
allow me to send for Dr Thomas?' to which he 
answered, 'Do so, but be quick; I am sorry I 



did not let you do so before, as I am sure they 
have mistaken my disease. Write yourself, for 
I know they would not like to see other doctors 
here.' I did not lose a moment in obeying my 
masters orders; and on informing Dr Bruno 
and Mr Millingen of it, they said it was very 
right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. 
On returning to my master's room, his first 
words were 'have you sent?'— 'I have, my 
lord,' was my answer; upon which he said, ' you 
have done right, for I should like to know what 
is the matter with me.' Although his lordship 
did not appear to think his dissolution was so 
near, I could perceive he was getting weaker 
every hour, and he even began to have occasional 
fits of delirium. He afterwards said, ' I now 
begin to think I am seriously ill, and in case I 
should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you 
several directions, which I hope you will be par- 
ticular in seeing executed.' I answered I would 
in case such an event came to pass, but expressed 
a hope that he would live many years to execute 
them much better himself than I could. To 
thi3 my master replied, ' No, it is now nearly 
over :' and then added, ' I must tell you all 
without losing a moment!' I then said, ' Shall I 
go, my lord, and fetch pen, ink and paper?' — 
'Oh, my God! no; you will lose too much 
time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is 
now short,' said his lordship, and immediately 
after, 'Now pay attention!' His lordship com- 
menced by saying, 'You will be provided for.' 
I begged him, however, to proceed with things 
of more consequence. He then continued, ' oh, 
my poor dear child ! my dear Ada ! my God ! 
could I but have seen her! Give her my bless- 
ing—and my dear sister Augusta and her chil- 
dren ; and you will go to Lady Byron, and 
say — tell her every thing,— you are friends with 
her.' His lordship seemed to be greatly affected 
at this moment. Here my master's voice failed 
him, so that I could only catch a word at in- 
tervals ; but he kept muttering something very 
seriously for some time, and would often raise 
his voice, and said, ' Fletcher, now if you do 
not execute every order which I have given you, 
I will torment you hereafter if possible.' Here 
I told his lordship in a state of the greatest 
perplexity, that I had not understood a word of 
what he said ; to which he replied, ' Oh, my 
God ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! 
Can it be possible you have not understood me?' 
— 'No, my lord,' said I, 'but I pray you to try 
and inform me once more.' ' How can I?' re- 
joined my master, ' it is now too late, and all is 
over!' I said, 'Not our will, but God's be 
done?' — and he answered, 'Yes, not mine be 
done!— but I will try.' His lordship did indeed 



LIFE OF LOKD BYRON. 



XXX IX 



make several efforts to speak, but could only 
speak two or three words at a time, — such as, 
' My wife ! my child ! my sister !— you know 
all— you must say all — you know my wishes — 
the rest was quite unintelligible. A consultation 
was now held (about noon), when it was deter- 
mined to administer some Peruvian bark and 
wine. My master had now been nine days 
without any sustenance whatever, except what I 
have already mentioned. With the exception of 
a few words, which can only interest those to 
whom they were addressed, and which if re- 
quired I shall communicate to themselves, it was 
impossible to understand any thing his lordship 
said after taking the bark. He expressed a wish 
to sleep. I at one time asked whether I should 
call Mr Parry, to which he replied, ' Yes, you 
may call him.' Mr Parry desired him to com- 
pose himself. He shed tears, and apparently 
sunk into a slumber. Mr Parry went away ex- 
pecting to find him refreshed on his return, — 
but it was the commencement of the lethargy 
preceding his death. The last words I heard my 
master utter were at six o'clock on the evening 
of the 1 8th, when he said, ' I must sleep now ;' 
upon which he laid down never to rise again! — 
for he did not move hand or foot during the 
following twenty-four hours. His lordship ap- 
peared, however, to be in a state of suffocation 
at intervals, and had a frequent rattling in the 
throat; on these occasions I called Tita to assist 
me in raising his head, and I thought he seemed 
to get quite stiff. The rattling and choking 
in the throat took place every half-hour, and 
we continued to raise his head whenever the fit 
came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 
19th, when I saw my master open his eyes and 
then shut them, but without showing any symp- 
tom of pain, or moving hand or foot. ' Oh ! 
my God!' I exclaimed, 'I fear his lordship is 
gone!' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, 
'You are right — he is gone!'» 

On the day of this melancholy event, Prince 
Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expressive 
of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all classes, 
and ordering every public demonstration of re- 
spect and sorrow to be paid to the memory of the 
illustrious deceased, by firing minute-guns, clos- 
ing all the public-offices and shops, suspending 
the usual Easter festivities, and by a general 
mourning and funeral prayersin all the churches. 
It was resolved that the body should be em- 
balmed, and after the suitable funeral honours 
had been performed, should be embarked for 
Zante,— thence to be conveyed to England. Ac- 
cordingly the medical men opened the body and 
embalmed it, and having enclosed the heart, and 
separate vessels, they 



braiu, aud intestines 



placed it in a chest lined with tin, as there were 
no means of procuring a leaden coffin capable of 
holding the spirits necessary for its preservation 
on the voyage. Dr Bruno drew up an account 
of the examination of the body, by which it ap- 
peared his lordship's death had been caused by 
an inflammatory fever. Dr Meyer, a Swiss phy- 
sician, who was present, and had accidentally- 
seen Madame de Stael after her death, stated:that 
the formation of the brain in both these illus- 
trious persons was extremely similar, but that 
Lord Byron had a much greater quantity. 

On the 2 2d of April, 1824, in the midst of 
his own brigade, the troops of the government, 
and the whole population, the most precious 
portion of his honoured remains was carried 
to the church, where lie the bodies of Marco 
Botzaris and of General Xormann. The coffin 
was a rude, ill-constructed chest of wood; a black 
mantle served for a pall, and over it were placed 
a helmet, a sword, and a crown of laurel. But no 
funeral pomp could have left the impression, 
nor spoken the feelings, of this simple ceremony. 
The wretchedness and desolation of the place 
itself, the wild and half-civilized warriors present, 
their deep-felt, unaffected grief, the fond recol- 
lections, the disappointed hopes, the anxieties and 
sad presentiments which might be read on every 
countenance — all contributed to form a scene more 
truly affecting than perhaps was ever before 
witnessed round the grave of a great man. When 
the funeral service was over, the bier was left 
in the middle of the church, where it remained 
until the evening of the next day, guarded by a 
detachment of his own brigade, when it waspri- 
vately carried back by his officers to his own 
house. The coffin was not closed till the 29th of 
the month. 

On the 2d of May the remains of Lord Byron 
were embarked, under a salute from the guns of 
the fortress. « How different," exclaims Count 
Gamba, « from that which had welcomed the arri- 
val of Byron only four months ago! > After a pas- 
sage of three days, the vessel reached Zante, and 
the precious deposit was placed in the quarantine 
house. Here some additional precautions were 
taken to ensure its safe arrival in England, by 
providing another case for the body. On the 
10th May, Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante, 
from the Morea, and, as he was on his way back 
to England, he took charge of Lord Byron's re- 
mains, and embarked with them on board the 
Florida. On the 2 5th of May she sailed from 
Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs, 
and from thence proceeded to Stangate Creek, to 
perform quarantine, where she arrived on Thurs- 
day, July 1. 

John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. and John Hanson, 



xl 



LIFE OF LOUD PYRON. 



I sq.. Lord Bvrou's executors, after baring proved 
his will, claimed the body From the Florida, and 
under their directions it was removed to the 
b.009e of Sir Edward knatchbull, Westminster, 
where it lay in state several days. 

A lew select friends and admirers of the noble 
hard followed his remains to the grave. As the 
funeral procession passed through the streets of 
London, a line-looking honest tar was observed 
to walk near the hearse unco\ered, and on being 
asked Avhether he formed part of the cortege, he 
replied he came there to pay his respects to the 
deceased, with whom lie had served in the Levant, 
when he made the tour of the Grecian islands. 
The poor fellow was offered a place by some of 
the servants; but he said he was strong, and 
had rather walk near the hearse. 

The interment took place on Friday, July 16th. 
Lord Byron Avas buried in the family vault, at 
the village of Hucknell, eight miles beyond Not- 
tingham, and within two miles of the venerable 
Abbey of Newstead. He was accompanied to the 
grave by crowds of persons eager to show this 
last testimony of respect to his memory. As in 
one of his earlier poems he had expressed a wish 
that his dust might mingle with his mother's, 
his coffin was placed in the vault next to hers. 
It bore the following inscription : 

« George Gordon Noel Byron, 

Lord Byron, 

of Rochdale, 

Born in London, ' 

Jan. 22, 1788, 

died at Missolonghi, 

in Western Greece, 

April 19th, 1824. » 

* ?»flr Dallas says Dover. 



An urn accompanied the cofhn, and on it was 
inserihed : 

Within this urn are deposited the heart, 

brain, etc. 

of the deceased Lord Byron. 

An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, 
has been placed in the chancel of Hucknell 
church, with the following inscription in Ro- 
inan capitals : 

I.N THE VAULT BENEATH, 

WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER ARE 

BURIED, 

LIE THE REMAINS OF 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; 

THE AUTHOR OF « CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. >» 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 

22D OF JANUARY, 1788. 

HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, ON THE 

I9TH OF APRIL, 1824, 

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RESTORE THAT 

COUNTRY TO HEP. ANCIENT FREEDOM AND RENOWN. 



HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. 



THE 



COMPLETE WORKS 



KWfcD H1,%1 



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fbouva of jjprlotaew. 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 



Yirginibus puerisque Canto. 

Horace, lib. 3. Ode i 
M?;-' v.p fit >j-xX uhzs , firfce zi vstxsu 

Homer. Iliad. 10. 
He -whistled as he went for want of thought. 

Dbtdeh . 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. 

CJjese liorms arc Unscrrbrti, 

BY HIS OBLIGED WARD, AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 

THE AUTHOR. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 



Why dost thou build the hall ? Son of the winged days '. Thou 
lookest from thy tower to-day ; yet a few years, and the blast of the 
desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court. 

SSI AN. 



Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the 
way. 

Of the mail-cover'd barons, who proudly, to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, 
Raise a flame in the breast, for the war-laurel'd wreath ; 

Near Askalon's Towers John of Horistan ■ slumbers, 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy; 

For the safety of Edward and England they fell; 
My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; 

Hew you fought ! how you died ! still her annals can 
tell. 



1 Horistan Castle, 
family. 



an ancient seat of the Byron 



On Alarston, J with Rupert 2 'gainst traitors contending, 
Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; 

For the rights of a monarch, their country defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing 
From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu ! 

Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, — 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. 

i8o3. 

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

kcr-np Tzpiv fiev e/a//.Trs? sv« Cwowtv swoc. 

Laertius. 
Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 

1 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. 
were defeated. 

2 Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. ne after- 
wards commanded the fieet, in the reiffn of Charles II. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; 
Thou still hadst lived, to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight. 
If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, 
Yet, other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
Cut who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image, what new friendship can efface? 
Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow, 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary Friendship sighs alone. 

tSo3. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns : 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber" d stone; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay; 
That, only that, shall single out the spot, 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 



i8o3. 



THE TEAR. 

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te. pia Nympha, sensit. 

When Friendship or Love 

Our sympathies move; 
When Truth in a glance should appear; 

The lips may beguile, 

With a dimple or smile, 
But the test of affection 's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile 

But the hypocrites wile, 
To mask detestation or fear; 

Give me the soft sigh, 

Whilst the soul- telling eye 
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear. 

Mild Charity's glow, 

To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear; 

Compassion will melt, 

Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 



The man doom'd to sail, 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer; 

As he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death, 

For a fanciful wreath, 
In Glory's romantic career; 

But he raises the foe, 

When in battle laid low, 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If, with high-bounding pride, 

He return to his bride, 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 

All his toils are repaid, 

When embracing the maid — 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth, 

Seat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 

Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, 

For a last look I turn'd, 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 

Though my vows I can pour, 

To my Mary no more, 
My Mary, to Love once so dear ; 

In the shade of her bower, 

I remember the hour, 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, 

May she live ever blest, 
Her name still my heart must revere; 

With a sigh I resign, 

What I once thought was mine, 
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, 

Ere from you I depart, 
This hope to my breast is most near, 

If again we shall meet, 

In this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight, 

To the regions of night, 
And my corse shall recline on its bier, 

As ye pass by the tomb, 

Where my ashes consume, 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow 

The splendour of woe, 
Which the children of vanity rear; 

No fiction of fame 

Shall blazon my name, 
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. 

1806. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. 
Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel 

of Fortune, » at a private theatre. 
Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, 

Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; 

Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 

And meet indulgence though she find not fame. 

Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 

Others appear more conscious of defect; 

To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 

In all the arts of scenic action old ; 

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 

No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear; 

To-night, you throng to witness the debut 

Of embryo actors, to the drama new. 

Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; 

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly; 

Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, 

But all our Dramatis Persona? wait, 

In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Each tirnid Heroine shrinks before your gaze; 

Surely the last will some protection find — 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind; 

Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 

The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. 

Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, 

Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 

Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. 

The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a 
Morning Paper. 
Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath; 
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points it due. 
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following 

Reply. 
Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth; 
What, though our « nation's foes» lament the fate, 
With generous feeling, of the good and great; 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame? 
When Pitt expired, in plenitude of power, 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
For noble spirits war not « with the dead.» 
His friends, in tears, a last said requiem gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; 
He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelmiug our conflicting state; 
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, 
Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd. 
He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied ; 
With him our fast reviving hopes have died: 
Not one great people only raise his urn, 
All Europe's far extended regions mourn. 
« These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, 
To give the palm where Justice points it due;» 



Yet let not canker' d calumny assail, 
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
Fox, o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep, 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
Nor even to Pitt the patriot's palm resign, 
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 
fFith the Poems of Canwens. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem, 

Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'It prize; 
It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 

A theme we never can despise. 
Who blames it but the envious fool. 

The old and disappointed maid? 
Or pupil of the prudish school, 

In single sorrow doom'd to fade. 
Then read, dear girl, with feeling read, 

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; 
To thee in vain I shall not plead, 

In pity for the Poet's woes. 
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard; 

His was no faint fictitious flame ; 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



TO M ' * \ 

Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 

With bright but mild affection shine, 
Though they might kindle less desire, 

Love more than mortal would be thine. 
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 
We must admire, but still despair, — 

That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 

So much perfection in thee shone, 
She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thee for their own. 
Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 

Lest angels might dispute the prize, 
She bade a secret lightning lurk 

Within those once celestial eyes. 
These might the boldest sylph appal, 

When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 
Thy beauty must enrapture all, 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze! 
'T is said, that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 
But they would ne'er permit thee there, 

Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 
For, did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister lights would scarce appear; 
E'en suns, which systems now controul, 

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 
1806. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman! experience might have told me, 

That all must love tliee who hehold thee. 

Surely, experience might have taught, 

Thy firmest promises are nought; 

But, placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh Memory! thou choicest blessing, 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed b yevery lover, 

When hope is fled, and passion 's over! 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her! 

How throbs the pulse, when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth! 

Fondly we hope 't will last for aye, 

Y\ hen lo! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

« Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand.»> 



TO M. S. G. 



When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive; 

Extend not your anger to sleep, 
For in visions alone your affection can live; 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

What rapture celestial is mine! 

They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a forestaste of heaven ! 

Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, 

Oh! think not my penance deficient; 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



SONG. 

When I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath, 
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow, 2 

To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
Or the mist of the tempest that galher'd below, 3 

1 The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish 
proverb. 

2 Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire : « Gormal of Snow* 
is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. 

3 This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been ac- 
customed to the mountains : it is by no means uncommon on attain- 
ing the top of Ben e vis, Ben y bourd, etc., to perceive, between the 
summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally, 
accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down 
on the storm, perfectly secure from its effects. 



I Hi Mini 'd by science, a stranger to fear, 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, 

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name; 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? 
But, still, [ perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest, 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 

I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain I bounded along, 
I breasted 1 the billows of Dee's* rushing tide, 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: 
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view, 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone, 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 

And delight but in days I have witness'd before. 
Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot, 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew; 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot, 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; 3 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; 
WheD, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, 

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more 

Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow: 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah , no ! 
Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred, 

Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head; 

Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you? 



TO * * * 

Oh ! yes, [ will own we were dear to each other, 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true; 

The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion, 
The attachment of years in a moment expires; 

Like Love too, she moves ou a swift-waving pinion, 
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 

1 « Breasting the lofty surge. » — Shakspeare. 

2 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and 
falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 

3 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far 
from the ruins of Dee Castle. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Full oft have we wandered through Ida together, 

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow ; 
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! 

But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 
No more with Affection shall Memory blending 

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace; 
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, 

And what would be Justice appears a disgrace. 
However, dear S , for I still must esteem you, 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid, 
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, 

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 

With me no corroding resentment shall live ; 
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, 

That both may be wrong, and that both should 
forgive. 
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 

If danger demanded, were wholly your own; 
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance, 

Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 
You knew, — but away the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of affection no longer endures; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
For the present we part, — I will hope not for ever, 

For time and regret will restore you at last ; 
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour; 

I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



TO MARY. 

On receiving her picture. 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 

Though strong as mortal art could give. 
My constant heart of fear disarms, 

Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 
Here, I can trace the locks of gold 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave; 
The cheeks, which sprung from Beauty's mould, 

The lips, which made me beauty's slave. 
Here, I can trace ah no ! that eye, 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retire. 
Here I behold its beauteous hue, 

Cut where's the beam so sweetly straying? 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing. 
Sweet copy ! far more dear to mc, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 
She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
Unconscious, that her image, there, 

Held every sense in fast controul. 
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 't will cheer 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; 
In life's last conflict 't will appear, 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



DAM.ETAS. 

In law an infant, » and in years a boy, 
In mind a slave to every vicious joy, 
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd, 
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 
Versed in hypocrisy, while vet a child, 
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool, 
Old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from school 
Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin, 
And found the goal, when others just begin ; 
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
But pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 
And, what was once his bliss, appears his bane. 



TO MARION. 



Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 

What disgust to life hast thou ? 

Change that discontented air; 

Frowns become not one so fair. 

'T is not love disturbs thy rest, 

Love 's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears; 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears ; 

Or bends the languid eyelid down, 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

Nought but cold indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile, at least, or seem to smile ; 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs, in dark restraint ; 

Spite of all, thou fain wouldst say, 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips,— but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse. 

She blushes, curtsies, frowns, — in short she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me; 

And flying off, in search of reason, 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All 1 shall therefore say (whatc'er 

I think is neither here nor there), 

Is that such lips, of looks endearing, 

Were form'd for better things than sneering ; 

Of soothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least 's disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee, 

From all the flow of flattery free ; 

Counsel, like mine, is as a brother's, 

My heart is given to some others; 

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 

It shares itself amongst a dozen. 

Marion, adieu! oh ! prithee slight not 

This warning, though it may delight not; 

And. lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think remonstrance teazing, 

At once I 11 tell thee our opinion, 

Concerning woman's soft dominion : 

1 In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age 
of twentr-one. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Howe'cr we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue, or lips carnation ; 
Howe'er tlic flowing locks attract us, 
Ilowc'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to love; 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture. 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble traiD, 
To hail you queens of all creation,— 
Know, in a word, 't is Animation. 



OSCAR OF ALVA. 



How sweetly shines, through azure skies, 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore, 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

But often has yon rolling- moon 

On Alva's casques of silver play'd, 
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, 

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd. 

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
She saw the gasping warrior low. 

While many an eye, which ne'er again 

Could mark the rising orb of day, 
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, 

Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light : 

But now, she glimmer' d from above, 
A sad funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race, 

And grey her towers are seen afar; 
No more her heroes urge the chase, 

Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ''. 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And, when that gale is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in yonder hall, 
It rises hoarsely through the sky, 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; 

But there no more his banners rise, 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth, 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

' The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of u Je- 
ronymoand Lorenzo,* in the tirst volume of « The Armenian, or 
Ghost-Seer. » It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the 
third act of a Macbeth.* 



They feast upon the mountain deer, 
The Pibroch raised its piercing note; 

To gladden more their Highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float. 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that, one day, the Pibroch's strain 

Should play before the Hero's child, 
While he should lead the Tarlan train. 

Another year is quickly past, 

And Angus hails another son; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But, ere their years of youth are o'er, 
They mingle in the ranks of war: 

They lightly wield the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 
Wildly it stream'd along the gale; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
Allan had early learnt controul, 

And smooth his words had been from youth 

Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 
Was shiver' d oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel. 

While Allan's soul belied his form, 

Unworthy with such charms to dwell; 

Keen as the lightning of the storm, 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came : 

And Oscar claim' d the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled; 
It soothed the father's feudal pride, 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note, 
Hark! to the swelling nuptial song; 

In joyous strains the voices float, 
And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes, 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on his chieftain's call. 

It is not war their aid demands, 

The Pibroch plays the song of peace ; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar ? sure 't is late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



At length young Allan join'd the bride, 
« Why comes not Oscar ?» Angus said; 

k Is he not here?» the youth replied, 
« With me he roved not o'er the glade. 

« Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'T is his to chase the bounding roe; 

Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay, 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow.» 

« Oh no !» the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
« Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind? 

Would aught to her impede his way' 

«Oh! search, ye chiefs! oh, search around! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly, 
Till Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply. » 

All is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 

It rises on the murmuring gale, 

Till night expands her dusky wings. 

It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades in vain ; 

It sounds through morning's misty light, 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave; 

Then hope is lost in boundless grief, 
His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. 

« Oscar! my Son ! — Thou God of heaven ! 

Restore the prop of sinking age; 
Or, if that hope no more is given, 

Yield his assassin to my rage. 

k Yes, on some desert rocky shore, 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; 

Then, grant, thou God! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die. 

« Yet, he may live — away despair; 

Be calm, my soul! he yet may live! 
'T arraign my fate, my voice forbear; 

God, my impious prayer forgive! 

« What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 

Alas! can pangs like these be just ?» 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 

Had bade serenity return, 
And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 

For still some latent hope survived, 
That Oscar might once more appear; 

His hope now droop'd, and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 

Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sovow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
And, now, his father's only joy: 

And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair' d boy. 



She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair, 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more, 
In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 

His fondest scruple should be o'er, 

And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling past, 
What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn! 

Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd, 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recal. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow- 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth ! 

Before his eye's far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 
And tall his plume of gorv red; 

His voice is like the rising storm, 
But light and trackless is his tread. 

'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft ; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

« Old raanln he cried, « this pledge is done. 
Thou saw'st 't was duly drunk by me, 

It hail'd the nuptials of thy son ; 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

« W 7 hile all around is mirth and joy, 
To bless thy Allan's happy lot; 

Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy? 
Say, why should Oscar be forgot ?» 

« Alas!» the hapless sire replied, 
The big tear starting as he spoke; 

« When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

« Thrice has the earth revolved her course, 
Since Oscar's form has blest my sight; 

And Allan is my last resource, 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight. » 

«'T is well," replied the stranger stern, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; 

« Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

« Perchance if those whom most he loved, 
Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Perchance the cliicf lias only roved, 
For him tliy Bellane 1 yet may burn. 

« Fill higli the bowl, the table round, 
We will not claim the pledge bysteallli, 

With wine let every cup be crown'd, 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health. » 

w With all my soul,» old Angus said, 
And rill'd his goblet to the brim jjfl 

« Here 's to my boy! alive or dead,aC 
I ne'er shall find a son like him. t> 

« Bravely, old man, this health has sped, 
But why does Allan trembling stand? 

Come, drink remembrance of tlie dead, 
And raise thy cup with firmer hand.» 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; 

The drops of death each other chase, 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye, 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

« And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here? 

If thus affection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear?» 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl; 

« Would Oscar now could share our mirth !» 
Internal fear appall'd his soul, 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

« T is he! T hear my murderer's voice,» 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form ; 

« A murderer's voice !» the roof replies, 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
The stranger 's gone, amidst the crew 

A Form was seen, in tartan green, 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 

His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 

And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus, bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a Chief on the ground, 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 

The thunders through the welkin ring; 
And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the storm, 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased ; 

Who lies upon the stony floor? 
Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

« Away, away, let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes;» 

His sand is done, — his race is run, 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

" Beltane-Tree.— A Highland festival, on the ist of May, held 
near fires lighted for the occasion. 



But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale, 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
And whence the dreadful stranger came, 

Or who, no mortal wight can tell; 
But no one doubts the Form of Flame, 

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 

Exulting demons wing'd his dart, 
While Envy waved her burning brand, 

And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow: 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
And Mora's eye could Allan move, 

She bade his wounded pride rebel ; 
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love, 

Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell. 
Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, 

Which rises o'er a warrior dead! 
It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 

Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
Far distant, far, the noble grave, 

Which held his clan's great ashes, stood ! 
And o'er his corse no banners wave, 

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, 

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? 
The song is glory's chief reward, 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 

No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 

His harp in shuddering chords would break. 
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 

Shall sound his glories high in air, 
A dying father's bitter curse, 

A brother's death-groan echoes there. 



TO THE DUKE OF D. 



In looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for the 
second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally 
forgotten, composed in the summer of i8o5, a short time previous 

to my departure from Ft . They were addressed to a young 

school-fellow of high rank, who bad been my frequent companion 
in some rambles through the neighbouring country; however, he 
never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re- 
perusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the 
collection, I have now published ihem, for the first time, after a 
slight revision. 

D— r — t ! whose early steps with mine have stray d, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade, 
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend; 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command 1 

1 At every public school, the junior boysare completely subser- 
vient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the higher classes. 
From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt ; but 
after a certain period, they command, in turn, those who succeed. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gift of riches, and the pride of power; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far heneath the throne. 
Yet, D — r — t, let not this seduce thy soul, 
To shun fair science, or evade control ; 
Though passive tutors, 1 fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol,— not to thee! 
And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn : 
When these declare that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools; 
That « gallant spirits scorn the common ru!es;» 
Believe them not, — they point the path to shamej 
And seek to blast the honours of thy name : 
Turn to the few, in Ida's early throng, 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
Ask thine own heart ! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear, 
For well I know that virtue lingers there. 

Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away; 
Yes ! I have mark'd within that generous mind, 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind: 
Ah ! though myself, by nature, haughty, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child, 
Though every error stamps me for her own, 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone. 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
T is not enough, with other Sons of power, 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour, 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 
With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside; 
Then share with titled crowds the common lot, 
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; 
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 
The mouldering scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
That well emblazon'd, but neglected scroll, 
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 
One spot to leave a worthless name behind : — 
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults; 
A race with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
In records destined never to be read. 
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
Exalted more among the good and wise; 
A glorious and a long career pursue, 
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too; 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, 
Not Fortune's minion, but her ablest son. 

1 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most 
distant: I merely mention, generally, what is too often the weak- 
ness of preceptors. 



Turn to the annals of a former day, — 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display ; 
One, though a Courtier, liv'd a man of worth, 
And call'd, proud boast ! the British Drama forth. 1 
Another view ! not less renown'd for Wit, 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine, 
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; 
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. 2 
Such were thy Fathers, thus preserve their name, 
Not heir to titles onlv, but to Fame. 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes; 
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all were 

mine; 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; 
Friendship whose truth let childhood only tell — 
Alas ! they love not long who love so well. 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

D — r — t ! farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere, 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
We hence may meet, and pass each other by 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe ; 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race; 
No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice, 
Or hear, uuless in crowds, thy well-known voice. 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which, perchance, it ought; 
If these, — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain, 
Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate, 
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 

1 u Thomas S— k— lie, Lord E— k— st, created Earl of D by 

James the First, was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments 
to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular 
drama. n — Asdersos's British Poets. 

2 Charles S—k— He, Earl of D , esteemed the most accom- 
plished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous 
court of Charles II., and the gloomy one of William III. He be- 
haved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in i665, 
on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song. Ilis 
character has be^u drawn in the highest colours, by Dryden, Pope, 
Prior, and Congreve.— Asderson's British Poets. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TRANSLATIONS 



IMITATIONS. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN 
DYING. 

Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
Quae nunc abibis in loca? 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos. 



TRANSLATION. 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more, with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 



« AD LESBIAM.w 



Equal to Jove that youth must be, 

Greater than Jove he seems to me, 

"Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, 

Securely views thy matchless charms; 

That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 

That mouth from -whence such music flows, 

To him alike are always known, 

Reserved for him, and him alone. 

Ah ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, 

I cannot chuse but look on thee ; 

But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 

I needs must gaze, but gazing die; 

Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 

Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, 

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 

My limbs deny their slight support; 

Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 

With deadly languor droops my head, 

My ears with tingling echoes ring, 

And life itself is on the wing; 

My eyes refuse the cheering light, 

Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 

Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 

And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION 
OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 

By death's unequal hand » alike controll'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. 

1 The bond of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgil 
was considerably older than Tibullus at bis decease. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 



"LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSEMS.» 



Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread; 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved ; 
For he was gentle, and so true, 
Obedient to her call he flew, 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 
And softly fluttering here and there. 
He never sought to cleave the air; 
But chirrup'd oft, and free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having past the gloomy bourne, 
From whence he never can return,' 
His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 
Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly power can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, 
Thou art the cause of all her woe, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 



Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire; 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an'age on every kiss; 
Nor then my soul should sated be, 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; 
E'ei\ though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed; 
To part would be a vain endeavoui : 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON. 



TO HIS LYRE. 



I wish to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire; 
To echo from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought, and nations fell; 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmu^roved afar; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war my harp is due; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1 1 



With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra hleeds: 
All, all in vain, my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms! 
Adieu! the clang of war's alarms. 
To other deeds my soul is struDg, 
And sweeter notes shall now he sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the (ale my heart must feel ; 
Love, love alone my lyre shall claim, 
In songs of bliss, and sighs of flame. 



ODE III. 

'T was now the hour, when Night had driven 

Her car half round yon sable heaven; 

Bootes, only, seemed to roll 

His Arctic charge around the Pole; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep; 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force: 

My visions fled, alarm'd I rose; 

« What stranger breaks my blest repose ?» 

« Alas!» replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents, sweetly mild, 

« A hapless infant here I roam, 

Far from my dear maternal home; 

Oh! shield me from the wintry blast, 

The nightly storm is pouring fast; 

No prowling robber lingers here, 

A wandering baby who can fear?» 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale; 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's woe; 

I drew the bar, and by the light, 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight; 

His bow across his shoulders flung, 

And thence his fatal quiver hung 

(All ! little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart); 

With care I tend my weary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing, 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: 

His shivering limbs the embers warm, 

And now, reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow: 

« I fain would know, my gentle host,» 

He cried, « if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 

The strings their former aid refuse :» 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies,, 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies : 

Then loud Lhe joyous urchin laugh'd, 

« My bow can still impel the shaft; 

T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?» 



FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VIKCTUS OF jESCHYLUS. 
Great Jove! to whose Almighty throne 
Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; 
My voice shall raise no impious strain 
Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 

How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 

The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; 
The nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. 
Harrow, Dec. I, 1804. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE .ENEID, LIB. 9. 

Nisus the guardian of the portal stood, 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 

Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield, 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field ; 

From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave; 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

With him Euryalus sustains the post: 

No lovelier mien adorn d the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share, 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair; 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love, 

In peace, in war united still they move; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward, 

And now combined, they hold their nightly guard. 

« What god,» exclairn'd the first, « instils this fire? 

Or, in itself a god, what great desire? 

My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 

Abhors this station of inglorious rest; 

The love of fame with tins can ill accord, — 

Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 

Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 

Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? 

Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 

And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? 

Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief, 

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; 

Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 

( The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine); 

Were this decreed — beneath yon rising mouud, 

Methinks an easy path perchance were found, 

Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 

And lead iEneas from Evander's halls. » 

With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 

His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : 

« These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? 

Must all the fame, the peril be thine own? 



1-2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am I by thee despised, and left af.ir, 
As one unlit to share the toils of war? 
Not thus his son the rjre.it Ophcltes taught, 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not tlius, when Ilion fell by heavenly liate, 
I track'd iEneas through the walks of fate. 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear; 
Here is a soul with hope immortal bums, 
And life, ignoble life, for Gtnry spurns; 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath, 
The price of honour is the sleep of death. » 
Then Nisus — «Calm thy bosom's fond alarms. 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms; 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth. 
But should I fall, and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance; 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low; 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve; 
When humhled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse: 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalise my doom. 
Why should thy doating wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared { 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore?» 
« In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,» 
Replied Euryalus, « it scorns control; 
Hence, let us haste.» — Their brother guards arose, 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold; 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
Au instant message to their prince decreed: 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield; 
W 7 hen Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear; 
lulus greets them; at his kind command, 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

« With patience, » thus Hyrtacides began, 
« Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan; 
Where yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed : 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak. 



If you. ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow, 
We 'II bead our course to yonder mountain's brow; 
Where Pdllas' wails, at distance, meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night; 
Then shall /Eneas in his pride return, 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn, 
And Lfttian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread ; 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray : 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam.- 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here cxclaim'd : 
« Ye parent Gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
Yours is the god-like act, be yours the praise; 
In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : — 
« What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise? 
Our deities the first, best boon have given, 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, 
Doubtless, await .such young exalted worth; 
/Eneas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine.» 
lulus then : « By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates 1 who my country love; 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own, 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown; 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. 
Two massy tripods also shall be thine, 
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 
An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave, 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 
Cut, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great ^Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery stepd, 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 
Are thine; ho envious lot shall then be cast, 
1 pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd; 
Nay more, twelve slaves, aud twice six captive dame; 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latianssway, 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one; 
Without thy aid no glory shall be mine, 
Without thy dear advice, no great design; 
Alike, through life esteem'd, thou god-like boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy.» 

1 Household Gods. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To him Euryalus : « No day shall shame 
The rising glories, which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour or the skies may frown, 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart: 
My mother sprung from Priam's royal line, 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine; 
Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from clangers of the main ; 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave : 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
In thee her much-loved child may live again; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress: 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame.» 
Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt, 
In tears, at once the Trojan warriors melt; 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow; 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
« All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied, 
« Nor this alone, but many a gift beside; 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's • style but wanting to the dame; 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath, 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd.» 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel. 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 
Slain, midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
lMnestheus, to guard the elder youth, bestows, 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows; 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all the assembled train, 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain; 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place; 
His prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail, 
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? 

The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots, and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen, 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between; 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine, 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
« Now,» cries the first, « for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labour share ; 
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise, 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies; 

1 The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken. 



I '11 carve our passage through the heediess foe, 

And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow.» 

His whispering accents then the youth represt, 

And pierced proud BJiamnes through his panting breas 

Sretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed, 

Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed ; 

To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 

His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 

But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 

Could not avert his own untimely fall. 

Next Bemus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 

And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell : 

The charioteer along his courser's sides 

Expires, the steel his severed neck divides; 

And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead, 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 

From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour, 

Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 

Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 

And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire; 

Half the long night in childish games was past, 

Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last ; 

Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd, 

And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls; 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams 
In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
Cut falls on feeble crowds without a name; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening steel ; 
His coward breast behind ajar he hides, 
And, vainly, in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed ; 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: 
« Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past, 
Full foes enough, to night, have breathed their last; 
Soon Will the day those eastern clouds adorn, 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn.» 

What silver arms, with various art ernboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardle.-s! yet, one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt; 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th* exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, 
To seek the vale, where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course ; 



• 4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
The kni;;lus, impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
To Turnus, with their master's promise sped : 
Now, they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls; 
The plunder* d helmet, through the waning night, 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright; 
Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms — 
« Stand, stragglers ! stand! why early thus in arms? 
From whence? to whom? » He meets with no reply, 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly; 
The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, 
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene; 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
« O God ! my boy,« he cries, « of me bereft, 
In what impending perils art thou left !» 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground; 
Again he turns — of footsteps hears the noise, 
The sound elates — the sight his hope destroys; 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 
Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ! 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ! 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ! 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : 
<■<■ Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky ! whose beams are seen afar, 
By night, Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the grove, 
When, as chaste Dlan, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase; 
Speed, speed, my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud. » 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; 
Through parted shades, the hurtling weapon sung.; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop, in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror ga^e; 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven ; 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes, 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall; 
« Thou youth accurst! thy life shall pay for alL» 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 



Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: 
« Me, me, your vengeance hurl on me alone, 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own; 
Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven attest! 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
All, all was mine — his early fate suspend, 
He only loved too well his hapless friend ; 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove, 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love.» 
He pray'd in vain, the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks, amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, 
Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel' d his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the Hero's grasp till Volscens dies; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved, 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; 
Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire; 
No future day shall see your names expire ; 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their Empress, Rome! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast, where love is wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge, 

Which rolls the tide of human woe? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame, 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But, if affection gently thrills 

The soul, by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills, 

In love can soothe the aching breast ; 
If thus, thou comest in disguise, 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart, unfeeling, would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



10 



But, never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire, 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire; 
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears! 

With others wage eternal war; 
Repentance! source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far. 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love! 
May all the hours be wing'd. with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above! 
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine, 

May I with some fond, lover sigh ! 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine, 

With me to live, with me to die. 
My native soil! beloved before, 

Now dearer, as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rockv shore, 

A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam ; 
This very dav, this very hour, 

May I resign this fleeting breath, 
Nor quit my silent, humble bower — 

A doom, to me, far worse than death. 

Have I not heard the exile's sigh ! 

And seen the exile's silent tear? 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive, weary wanderer here : 
Ah! hapless dame!' no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend ! whose iron heart, 

To fair affection's truth uuknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone; 
Who ne'er unlocks, with silver key, 2 

The milder treasures of his soul; 
May such a friend be far from me, 

And Ocean's storms between us roll! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. 3 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears; 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod; 

1 Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him 
for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The Chorus from 
which this is taken, here address Medea ; thongh a considerable li- 
berty is taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in 
some other parts of the translation. 

1 The original is « Ky.9y.pcrj &-joi%X'JZI /.lr t ov. cp-'JOiV." 
literally, u Disclosing the bright key of the mind.» 

3 >"o reflection is here intended against the person mentioned un- 
der the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing 
au unaToidable function of his office : indeed such an attempt could 
only recoil upon myself, as that gentleman is now as much distin- 
guished by his eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he 
fills his situation, as he was, in his younger days, for wit and con- 
viviality. 



As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth ! in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in any art beside; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres wdth a critic's ken. 
What ! though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead; 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France? 
Though marv'ling at the name of Magna Gharta, 
Yet, well he recollects the laws of Sparta; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, 
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But, lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope : 
Not that our Heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tally's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try, by speaking, to convince; 
Be other orators of pleasing proud, 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd; 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan; 
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen, 
The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promised cup, 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word, 
No matter what, so it can not be heard — 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest! 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best : 
Who utters most within the shortest space, 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Gran ta's sluggish shade; 
Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they lie, 
Unknown, unhonour'd live, — unwept for, die; 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls; 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise; 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, 1 or Porson's 2 note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote; 
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale, 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 't is Pitt or P — tty rules the hour. 3 

1 Celebrated critics. 

2 The present Greek Professor at Trinity College, Cambridge ; a 
man whose powers of mind and writings may perhaps justify their 
preference. 

3 Since this was written, Lord H. P y has lost his place, and 



iG 



HYRON'S WOIIKS. 



To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
While distant mines to their eyes are spread ; 
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 

They 'd By to seek the next who lill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, 
Such is their practice, such is their reward; 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 

1S06. 



TO THE EARL OF 



u Tu scraper amoris 
Sit mcraor, et cari comitis no ahscedat imago.* 

VALERIUS FLACCUS. 

Friend of my youth! when young we roved, 
Like striplings mutually beloved, 

With Friendship's purest glow; 
The bliss which winy'd those rosy hours, 
"Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems, alone, 
Dearer than all the joys I 've known, 

When distant far from you; 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again, Adieu ! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever; 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies, 

Two streams, which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each murmuring seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main. 

Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
Though near, alas! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before; 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in different channels ; 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts, 

And shine in Fashion's annals. 

'T is mine to waste on love my time. 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme, 

Without the aid of Reason ; 
For Sense and Reason (Critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous Poet, 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of re- 
presenting the University : a fact so glaring requires no comment. 



Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard I 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, 

That he, who sang before all; 
lie, who the lore of love expanded, 
By dire reviewers should be branded, 

As void of wit and moral. 1 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot; 
Thy soothing lays may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And Critics are forgot. 

Still, I must yield those worthies merit, 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them; 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

1 really will not fight them.* 

Perhaps they would do quite as well, 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner; 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty, may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now ■ — , I must return to you, 

And sure apologies are due ; 

Accept then my concession; 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, 

I soar along from left to right, 

My Muse admires digression. 

I think I said 't would be your fate, 
To add one star to royal state; 

May regal smiles attend you! 
And should a noble Monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet, since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round,' 

From snares may Saints preserve you; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From Truth's secure unerring way, 

May no delights decoy; 
O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love, 

Your tears be tears of joy. 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow : 
Be, still, as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you 've been known to me, 

Be, still, as you are now. 

' These Stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a se- 
vere critique in a Northern review, on a new publication of the 
British Anacreon. 

2 A Bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal com- 
bat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors 
must be dipt in the river Siyx, for what else can secure them from 
the numerous host of their enraged assailants? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



»7 



And though some trifling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I'd waive at once a Poet's fame, 

To prove a Prophet here. 



GRANTA, A MEDLEY. 



Apyvf.sot.Lg \by%a.U3.i p.v.yo\> xai Travra Kpo.rr l 'jocig. 

Oh ! could Le Sage's ' demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he 'd lift, 

To place it on St Mary's spire. 
Then would, unroofd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display; 
Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 
Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey; 
Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day. 
To ! candidates and voters lie, 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number! 
A race renown'd for piety, 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber 

Lord II , indeed, may not demur, 

Fellows are sage, reflecting men ! 
They know preferment can occur, 

Bat very seldom, — now and then. 
They know the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal ; 
Each hopes that one may be his lot, 

And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. 
Now, from the soporific scene 

I '11 turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view, uuheeded and unseen, 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
There, in apartments small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp — 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
He, surely, well deserves to gain them, 

With all the honours of his college, 
Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 

Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; 
Who sacrifices hours of rest, 

To scan, precisely, metres Attic, 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic ; 
Who reads false quantities in Sele, 2 

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 

In barbarous Latin 3 doom'd to wrangle; 

1 Tbe Diable Boiteux of Le Sige, where Asmodeus, the demon, 
places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses 
for his inspection. 

2 Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent 
and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is 
not remarkable for accuracy. 

3 The Latin of the schools is of the casink species, and not very 
intelligible. 



Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 

The square of the hypothenuse. * 
Still, harmless are these occupations, 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations, 

Which bring together the imprudent; 
Whose daring revels shock the sight, 

When vice and infamy combine, 
When drunkenness and dice invite, 

And every sense is steep'd in wine. 
Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay : 
In humble attitude they sue, 

And for the sins of others pray. 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'T is morn, — from these I turn my sight: 
What scene is this which meets the eye ? 

A numerous crowd, array'd in white, 2 
Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell; 

'T is hush'd : What sounds are these I hear? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the listening ear. 

To this is joined the sacred song, 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners; 

All mercy, now, must be refused 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended, 

Tn furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 

By some inhuman tyrant's order, 
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 

On Babylonian river's border. 
Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease — 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 
But, if I scribble longer now, 

The deuce a soul will stay to read ; 
My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 

'T is almost time to stop indeed. 
Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires, 

No more like Cleofas, I fly; 
No more thy theme my Muse inspires, 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 

1806. 

1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse 
is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled tri- 
angle. 

2 On a Saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel. 

3 



BYRON'S WOliKS. 



LACHIN Y GAIR. 



Lacuiit t Gais., or, aa ii is pronounced En the Erse, Loch m G«rb, 
towers proudlj pre-emim nt in the Northern Highlands, near fn- 
vercaald. One of our ma lern tourists mentions ii as the highest 
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain; be this as it may, ii is 
certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque am 
a Caledonian Alps.- lis appearan ■<■ is of a dusky h<i<-, but the 
summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent 
some of the early part of my life, tlie recollection of which li.is 
given birth to the following Stanzas. 



Away, yc gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war, 
Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah 1 there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd, 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; « 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade: 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; 
For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
« Shades of the dead : have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?» 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale : 
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car; 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers — 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 
« Ul-starr'd, 2 though brave, did no visions foreboding 

Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause '.'» 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 3 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy, in death's early slumber 

You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, 4 
The Pibroch 5 resounds to the piper's loud number 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you; 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 

Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar; 
Oh ! for the crags that are wild and majestic, 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 

1 This word is erroneously pronounced plad : tlie proper pronun- 
ciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography. 

2 I allude here to my maternal ancestors, « the Gordons," many 
of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known 
by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by 
blood, as well as attachment, to the Stewarts. George, the second 
Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter 
of James the First of Scotland ; by her he left four sons : the third, 
Sir V/illiam Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my pro- 
genitors. 

3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain ; 
but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the 
principal action, « pars pro xoto.n 

4 A tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a Castle of 
Braemar. 

5 The bagpipe. 



TO ROMANCE. 

Pabent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys ! 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive train of girls and hoys: 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break tlie fetters of my youth; 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 
And yet, 't is hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue, 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 
And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thv hall of clouds descend ; 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Fylades ' in every friend? 
Cut leave, at once, thy realms of air, 

To mingling bands of fairy elves : 
Confess that woman 's false as fair, 

And friends have feelings for — themselves. 
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway, 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er; 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar : 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to Truth was dear, 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 
Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where Affectation holds her seat, 

And sickly Sensibility; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine ; 
Who turns aside from real woe, 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine : 
Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, arrayed in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; 
And call thy sylvan female quire, 

To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
Who once could glow with equal lire, 

Rut bends not now before thy throne. 
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears, 

On all occasions, swiftly flow; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and frenzy glow. 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train? 
An infant Bard, at least, may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

1 It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of 
Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those 
of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, 
have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of at- 
tachments which, in all probability, never existed, beyond the ima- 
gination of the poet, the page of an historian, or modern novel- 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Adieu! fond race, a long adieu! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamented you must lie: 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather, 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas! must perish altogether. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 



■ It is the voice of years tli.it are gone! they roll before me 
all their deeds. OSSIAX. 



Newstead! fast-falling, once resplendent dome! 

Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's 2 pride! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide : 
Hail to thy pile! more honour' d in thy fall, 

Than modern mansions in their pillar' d state; 
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs, 3 obedient to their lord, 
In grim array, the crimson cross 4- demand, 

Or gay assemble round the festive board, 
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 

Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time; 
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 

A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime. 
Rut not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief, 

His feudal realm in other regions lay; 
In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, 

ft The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; 

Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting solace found, 

Or innocence from stern Oppression flew. 
A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl 
And superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 

The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 

Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. 
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 

Soon as the gloaming 5 spreads her waning shade, 
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 

Or matin orisons to Mary 6 paid. 

1 As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the 
author had originally no intention of inserting the following : it is 
now added at the particular request of some friends. 

2 Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas-a- 
Becket. 

3 This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, ■> The Wild 
Huntsman," as synonymous with Vassal. 

4 The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. 

5 As u Gloaming,., the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more 
poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, 
particularly by Dr Moore, in his Letters to Burns, 1 have ventured 
to use it on account of its harmony. 

The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 



Years roll on years — to ages ages yield — 

Abbot? to abbots in a line succeed, 
Religion's charter their protecting shield, 
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 
One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls, 

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; 
Another Henry 1 the kind gift recals, 

And bids devotion's hallow' d echoes cease. 
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer, 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair, — 

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. 
Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 

High-crested banners, wave thy walls within. 
Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
An abbey once, a regal fortress 2 now, 
Encircled by insulting rebel powers; 
War's dread machines o'crhang thy threatening brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, 

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave; 
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 

Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
Not unavenged, the raging baron yields, 

The blood of traitors smears die purple plain; 
Unconquer'd still his faulchion there he wields, 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 
Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; 
Rut Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 
Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal strife, 

In other fields the torrent to repel, 
For nobler combats here reserved his life, 

To lead the band where godlike Falkland i fell. 
From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven — 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; 
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
Raked from repose, in search for buried gold, 



1 At the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed 
Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

2 IVewstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between 
Charles I. and his Parliament. 

3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands 
in the royal army ; the former was General in Chief in Ireland, 
Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James Duke of York, af- 
terwards the unhappy James II. The latter had a principal share 
in many actions. Vide Clarendon, Hume, etc. 

4 Lucius Can, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished 
manor' his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in 
the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. 



20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hush'd is tlie harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 
The minstrel's palsied hand rec]ine8 in death; 

No more he strikes the quivering chords with (ire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 

At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 
Retire — the clamour of the fight is o'er; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway, 
And sahle Horror guards the massy door. 

Here Desolation holds her dreary court; 

What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omened birds resort 

To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans, 
Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath ; 

Earth shudders as her caves receive his hones, 
Loathing 1 the offering cf so dark a death. 

The legal Ruler 2 now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; 

Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. 

The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, 

Howling resign their violated nest; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

Vassals within thy hospitable pale, 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; 

And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 

The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake, 

What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
Ah ! happy days! too happy to endure! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure — 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
From these descending, sons to sires succeed, 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers — 
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep — 

1 Tbis is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred imme- 
diately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which 
occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers ; 
both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but 
whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists 
of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as 
suited the subject of my poem. 

2 Charles II. 



Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers — 

These, these he views, and views them hut to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret, 
Cherish 'd affection only bids them flow; 

Pride, Mope, and Love forbid him to forget, 
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 

Yet. he prefers thee to the gilded domes, 

Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great; 
Vet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 

Nor breathes a murrrrur 'gainst the will of fate. 
Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine, 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; 
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



TO E. N. L. ESQ. 



Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amieo. 



Dear L , in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye : 
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm, 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream; 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace, 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, 
Nor, through the groves of Ida, chase 

Our raptured visions as before; 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. 
And manhood claims his stern dominion, 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring; 
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone; 
Oh! may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted heedless flow, 
Still, still, despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Piemembrance yet delays, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1 ! 



Still, may I rove untutor'd, wild, 
And, even in age, at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same, 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue ; 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's o'er ; 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

When liilTd by zephyr to repose. 
Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre; 
But now, without a theme to chuse, 

The strains in stolen sighs expire; 
My youthful nymphs, alas ! arc flown ; 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary 's given to another; 
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, 

Can now no more my love recal ; 
In truth, dear L , 't was time to flee, 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays, 
And every lady's eye 's a sun, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridbn don't become her 
Whose sun displays a general summer. 
Thus faint is every former flame, 
And Passion's self is now a name : 
As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires, 

As many a boy and girl remembers, 
While all the force of love expires, 

Extinguished with the dying embers. 

But now, dear L , 't is midnight's noon, 

And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties 1 shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before? 
Yet, ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
lias thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat, 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; 
And then, with those our childhood knew, 
We '11 mingle with the festive crew; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away; 
And all the flow of soul shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. 



TO . 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 

As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
These follies had not then been mine, 

For then my peace had not been broken. 
To thee these early faults I owe, 

To thee, the wise and old reproving; 
They know my sins, but do not know 

'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 
For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 

And all its rising fires could smother; 
Eut now thy vows no more endure, 

Bestowd by thee upon another. 
Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 

And spoil the blisses that await him; 
Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 

My heart no more can rest with any; 
But what it sought in thee alone, 

Attempts, alas! to find in many. 
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 

"f were vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, 

But pride may teach me to forget thee. 
Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures, 
These varied loves, these matron's fears, 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, 
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; 

This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 

For nature seem'd to smile before thee; 
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, 

For then it beat but to adore thee. 
But now I seek for other joys : 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
Yet even in these a thought will steal, 

In spite of every vain endeavour ; 
And fiends might pity what I feel, 

To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAS. 

I would I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wiid, 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon ' pride 

Accords not with the free-born soul, 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 
Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound ! 
I hate the touch of servile bauds— 

I hate the slaves that cringe around : 
1 Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lovdai 
or English. 



11 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Place me along the rocks I love, 

Which sound lo ocean's wildest roar ; 

1 ask but tliis — a;;ain to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

Few are mv years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me; 
All! why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to he? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss ; 
Truth ! wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this? 
1 loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled ; 
How cheerless feels the heart alone, 

When all its former hopes are dead '. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill, 
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still. 
How dull to hear the voice of those 

Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boisterous Joy is but a name. 
And Woman ! lovely Woman, thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine 

Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. 
Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven , 

To flee away and be at rest. « 



lines 



WRITTEN' BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD 

OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL. 

SEPT. 2, 1807. 

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
Thou droopiug Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away; 
Where, as they ouce were wont, my limbs recline, 
But ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine. 

1 Psalm lv, v. 6. — u And I said, Oh! that I bad wings like a dove, 
then would 1 fly away and be at rest." This verse also constitutes 
a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. 



How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 

Invite the bosom to recal the past! 

And s em (o whisper, as they gently swell, 

« Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell '.» 

When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever' d brcait, 

And calm its cares and passions into rest, 

Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour, 

If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, 

To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 

Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell: 

With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die- 

And here it lingered, here my heart might lie; 

Here might 1 sleep, where all my hopes arose, 

Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose : 

For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 

Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd, 

Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 

Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved, 

Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 

Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, 

Deplored by those in early days allied, 

And unremember'd bv the world beside. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 

AN IMITATION OF 

MACPMEUSON'S OSSIAN. • 
Deak are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their re- 
membrance through the mist of time. In the twilight 
he recals the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear 
with trembling hand. « Not thus feebly did I raise the 
steel before my fathers !» Past is the race of heroes ! 
but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on 
the wings of the wind! they hear the sound through 
the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of 
clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks clown from eddying tempests 
he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the 
blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin's 
sons had fled before his angry spear : but mild was the 
eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks — 
they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid 
was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to 
friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! 
Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce was the 
pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they 
dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bouuded over the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies; 
but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. They 
lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the 
host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Cal- 
mar stood by his side. Their spears were iu their hands. 
Fingal called his chiefs. They stood around. The king 
was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was 
the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. 

1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though cansi- 
derably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from « I\isus and Eury- 
alus,» of which episode a translation has been already giveu. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



23 



v< Sons of Morven," said the hero, « to-morrow we meet 
the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? 
He rests in the halls of Tura : he knows not of our 
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, 
and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords 
of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunder- 
bolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! who will arise ?» 

«Son of Trenmor, mine be the deed,* said dark- 
haired Orla, « and mine alone. What is death to me? 
I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay 
me by the stream of Lubar.»— « And shalt thou fall 
alone?" said fair-hair'd Calmar. * Wilt thou leave thy 
friend afar, Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in 
fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, 
Orla ! ours has been the chase of the roe-buck, and the 
feast of shells; ours be the path of danger : ours has 
been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling 
on the banks of Lubar.»— « Calmar!» said the chief of 
Oithona, « why should thy yellow locks be darkened 
in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father 
dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy : but 
the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in 
Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the 
heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him 
not say, ' Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin ; he 
died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark -brow.' 
Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why 
should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? 
Live, Calmar, live to raise my stone of moss ; live to 
revenge me in the blood of Lochlin ! Join the song of 
bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death 
to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile 



Lochlin crowds around; fly through the shade of night. " 
Orla turns ; the helm of Mathon is cleft : his shield 
falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls 
by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall. 
His wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head of 
Orla ; but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes 
through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. 
As roll the waves of ocean on two mighty barks of the 
north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, 
breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of 
the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered 
crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of 
Fingal. He strikes his shield : his sons throng around; 
the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. 
Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The 
eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is 
the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin, 
Morven prevails in its strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills ! no living foe is seen ; 
but the sleepers are many : grim they lie on Erin. The 
breeze of Ocean lifts their locks : yet they do not awake. 
The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
dark hair of his friend. 'T is Calmar — he lies on the 
bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but 
his eye is still a flame ; it glares in death unclosed. 
His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives; he 
lives, though low. « Rise," said the king, « rise, son of 
Mora, 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 
may yet bound on the hills of Morven. » 

« Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven 
with Orla;« said the hero, « what were the chase to 



on the notes of praise.» — «Orla!» said the son of j me, alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with 
Mora « could I raise the song of death to my friend ? Calmar? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! 



Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart 
would speak in sighs; faint and broken are the sounds 
of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. 
One cloud shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle 
the names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim 
twinkles through the night. The northern star points 
the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on Lis 
lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in 
sleep, their shields beneath their heads. Their swords 
gleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their 
embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale 
sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes 
through the slumberiug band. Half the journey is 
past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 
eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the 
shade : his spear is raised on high. « Why dost thou 
bend thy brow, Chief of Oithona?» said fair-haired 
Calmar. « We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time 
for delay?» — « It is a time for vengeance," said Orla 
of the gloomy brow. « Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest 
thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my 
father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but 
shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall 
feel his wound ; my fame shall not soar on the blood 
of slumber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son ofConnal calls; 
thy life is his : rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
sleep, but did he rise alone ? No: the gathering chiefs 
bound on the plain. « Fly, Calmar, fly!» said dark- 
haired Orla : « Mathon is mine; I shall die in joy ; but 



yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others 
in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my 
sword to blue-eyed Mora : let it hang in my empty hall. 
It is not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. 
Lay me with my friend : raise the song when I am 
dark.» 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
Bards raised the song. 

« What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark 
ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice 
rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla ; the brown chief of 
Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy 
soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Cal- 
mar! lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but 
uot harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. 
The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy 
praise, Calmar! it dweiis on the voice of the mighty. 
Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise 
thy fair locks, son of Mora; spread them on the arch 
of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the 
storm." l 

1 I fear Lain j's late edition Las completely overthrown every hope 
that Macpberson's Ossian might prove the Translation of a series of 
Poems, complete in themselves; hut, while the imposture is disco- 
vered, the merit of thework remains undisputed, though not with- 
out faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and homhastic diction. 
The present humhle imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of 
the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an at- 
tachment to their fu\ourite author. 



24 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CRITIQUE 

EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINRURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY l8o8. 



flours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and 
translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a .Minor. 
8vo. pp. 200. — Newark, 1807. 

The poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, 
we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse 
with so few deviations in either direction from that 
exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead 
flat, and can no more gel above or below the level, than 
if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation 
of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward 
in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, 
and on the very back of the volume; it follows his 
name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is 
laid upon it iu the preface, and tlie poems are connected 
with this general statement of his case, by particular 
dates, substantiating the age at which eacli was written. 
Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be 
perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de- 
fendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary 
ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought 
against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him 
to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if 
judgment were given against him, it is highly probable 
that an exception would be taken were he to deliver 
for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he 
might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary 
tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that 
ground, for the price in good current praise, should 
the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the 
law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. 
Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about 

his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, 

■ I 

than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, I 

«See how a minor can write! This poem was actually 
composed by a young man of eighteen, aud this by one 
of only sixteen !» — But, alas! we all remember the poetry 
of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from 
hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor 
verses were written by a youth from his leaving school 
to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it 
happens in the life of nine men in ten who are edu- 
cated in England; and that the tenth man writes better 
verse than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings 
forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, 
does allude frequently to his family and ancestors — 
sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while 
giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care 
to remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a 
nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- 
deration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's 
poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- 
sel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn 
his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- 
ties, which are great, to better account. 



With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure 
him, (hut the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even 
when accompanied by the presence of a certain number 
offeet; nay, although (which does not always happen) 
those feet should scan regularly, and have been all 
counted accurately upon the fingers,— it is not the 
whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, 
that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, 
is necessary to constitute a poem ; and that a poem in 
the present day, to be read, must contain at least one 
thought, either in a little degree different from the 
ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We 
put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so de- 
serving the name of poetry in verses like the following, 
written in i8o(>; and whether, if a youth of eighteen 
could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a 
youth of nineteen should publish it: 

« Shades of heroes, farewell! your desceTdant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 

Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

a Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret: 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

« That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 

Like you will he live, or like you will he parish ; 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.» 

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing 
better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the 
noble minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have done before him, for 
comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at 
his writing-master's) are odious. — Gray's Ode on Eton 
College should really have kept out the ten hobbling 
stanzas «On a distant view of the village and school of 
Harrow. » 

« Where fancy yet joys to retrace" the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ue'er-fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Bogers « On 
a Tear,» might have warned the noble author off those 
premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as 
the following: 

«3Iild Charity's glow, 
To us mortals below, 
Shows thd soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt, 
Where ibis virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

« The man dcom'd to sail. 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 

As he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear." 



CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



13 



And so of instances in which former poets had failed. 
Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for trans- 
lating, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Soul, 
when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. 
If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they 
may look at it. 

■ Ah '. gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt tliou now win.f thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations 
and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. 
We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. 
Only, why print them after they have had their day 
and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79 1 
a translation, where two words {Srzla Isyet v) of the 
original are expanded into four lines, and the other 
thing in p. 81, 2 where /zssovuxrtats 7?o0 &pcct$ is ren- 
dered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Os- 
sianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in 
truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo- 
sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising 
some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to 
express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, 
then, the following beginning of a «Soug of Bards» is 
by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we 
can comprehend it. «What form rises on the roar of 
clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of 
tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Orla, the 
brown chief of Oithona. He was,» etc. After detaining 
this « brown chief » some time, the bards conclude by 
giving him their advice to « raise his fair locks;» then 
to « spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;» and « to 
smile through the tears of the storm. » Of this kind of 
thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so 
far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look 
very like Macpherson ; and we are positive they are 
pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but 
they should « use it as no* abusing it;» and particu- 
larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the 
ripe age of nineteen) of being « an infant bard,»— 
(« The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;») — should either 
not know, or should seem not to know, so much about 
his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the 
family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven 
pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an 
apology, « he certainly had no intention of inserting 
it,» but really « the particular request of some friends, » 
etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, « the 



Seepage 10. 
Pase 11. 



last and youngest of a noble line.» There is a good 
deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on 
Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his 
youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a 
bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his vo- 
lume to immortalize his employments at school and 
college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present- 
ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu- 
sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, 
we have the following magnificent stanzas : 

« There, in apartments small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

« Who reads false quantities in Sele, 

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprived of many a wb&iesome meal, 

In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: 

« Renouncing every pleasing page, 

From authors of historic use, 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 

The square of the hypothenuse. 

« Still harmless are these occupations. 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared with other recreations, 

Which bring together the imprudent." 

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic 
stanzas : 

« Our choir would scarcely he escused 

Even as a band of raw beginners; 
AH mercy now must be refused 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 

* If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 

In furious mood he would have tore 'em i» 

But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems 
of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we 
find them, and be content; for they are the last we 
shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but 
an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived 
in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though he 
once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of 
Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. 
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; 
and, whether it succeeds or not, «it is highly improba- 
ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that he 
should again condescend to become an author. There- 
fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What 
right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off 
to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, 
who does not live in a garret, but « has the sway» of 
Xewstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; 
and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor 
look the gift horse in the mouth. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A SATIRE. 



I had rather be a kitten, and rry mew! 
Than one of these same metre I allad-moo<;ers. 

SHAKSPEAHB. 

Such shameless Bards we have j and yet, 'tis true, 
There are as mad, abandoned Critics too. 



PREFACE. 1 



All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me 
not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to 
he « turned from the career of my humour by quibbles 
quick, and paper bullets of the brain, » I should have 
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be ter- 
rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- 
out arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none 
personally who did not commence on the offensive. 
An author's works are public property: he who pur- 
chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; 
and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate 
may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they 
will succeed better in condemning my scribblings than 
in mending their own. But my object is not to prove 
that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others 
write better. 

As the Poem has met with far more success than I 
expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
some additions and alterations, to render it more wor- 
thy of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written and inserted at the request of an inge- 
nious friend of mine, who has now in the press a vo- 
lume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, 
and some of my own substituted in their stead; my 
only reason for this being that which I conceive would 
operate with any other person in the same manner — a 
determination not to publish with my name any pro- 
duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own 
composition. 

With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- 
ical persons whose performances are mentioned or 
alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the 
author that there can be little difference of opinion in 
the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his 
metrical canons received without scruple and without 
consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 
considerable genius by several of the writers here cen- 
sured, renders their mental prostitution more to be 
regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand 
the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 

1 This Preface was written for the second edition of this Poem, 
and printed with it. 



than the author, that some known and able writer had 
undertaken their exposure; but Mr Gifford has de- 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nos- 
trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an 
epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- 
ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is 
to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can reco- 
ver the numerous patients afflicted with the present 
prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.— As to 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a 
Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds 
in merely « bruising one of the heads of the serpent,* 
though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, 
he will he amply satisfied. 



ENGLISH BARDS. 



etc., etc. 



Still must I hear?— shall hoarse Fitzgerald 1 bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Beviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? 
Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish right or wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. 

Oh ! Nature's noblest gift— my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride : 
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
Out thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 

1 IMITATION. 

« Semper ego auditor tantum 'I nunquamne reponam, 
Vexatus loties raiici Theseide Codri?»— Juvenal. Sat. i. 
Mr Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbetx the u Small-Beer 
Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of Terse on the u Literary Fund ;» 
not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company 
have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to 
sustain the operation. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



2 7 



Our task complete, like Hamel's, 1 shall be free; 
Though spurn' d by others, yet beloved by me: 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper' d dream 
Inspires— our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway, 
And men, through life her willing slaves, obey; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race: 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame — 
The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game; 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! 
1 too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme — 
A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame : 
I printed — older children do the same. 
'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in "t. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 2 
No matter, George continues still to write, 3 
Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-same road, but make my own review : 
Not seek great Jeffrey's— yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade, 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill' d to find or forge a fault, 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a lucky hit; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment? no — as soon 
Seek roses in December, ice in June; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff ; 
Believe a woman, or an epitaph ; 

i Cid IIamet Bekengeli promises repose to li is pen in the last 
chapter of Do* Quixote. Oh that our voluminous gentry would 
follow tbe example of Cid Ha met Bewengeli 1 

2 This ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with his 
production, in another place. 

* In the Edinburgh Review. 



Or any other thing that 's false, before 
You trust in critics who themselves are sore; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head. 1 

To these young tyrants, 2 by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word ft law, 
While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

3 Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Giffokd trod before; 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed: 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
When Sense and Wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, 
From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'u fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 
A polislrd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congkeve's scenes could cheer, or OxwAY'sinelt — 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
Survey the precious works that please the age; 
This truth at least let Satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now: 
The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press' d twelves. 

Thus saith the Preacher,* « nought beneath the sun 
Is new:» yet still from change to change we run ; 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass? 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of poetry arise, , 

Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: 
O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 

' Messrs Jef?het and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega, the first 
and last of the Edinburgh Review : the others are mentioned here- 
after. 
2 u Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique 

occurras peritura: parcere charts?. n — Juvenal. Sat. i. 

3 IMITATION. 

u Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrcre campo 
Per quern magnus eques Auruncaj flaxit alumnus ; 
Si vacat, ei placidi rationem admittitis, edam.n — Jitv. Sat. I. 
4 Ecclesiastes, chap. i. 



28 



15 Y RON'S WORKS. 



And, hurling lawful Junius from the throne, 
I i cts a shrine and idol of its own; 

Some leaden calf — hut whom il matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to groveling Stott.' 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For notice eager, pass in long review: 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme a^jd blank maintain an equal race ; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode, 
And tales of terror jostle on the road; 
Immeasurable measures move along; 
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious Dulncss still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels 3 — may they he the last! 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to their sound at nights: 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's 3 brood, 
Decoy young border nobles through the wood. 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight ; 

1 Stott, better known in the « Morning Post ■ by the name of 
lUnz. This personage is at present the most profound explorer of 
the bathos. I remember, to the reigning family of Portugal, a spe- 
cial ode of Master Stott'" s beginning thus : 

(Stott loquitur quoad VJibernia.) 
« Princely offspring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza, » etc., etc. 

Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thun- 
I dering ode commencing as follows : 

■ Oh for a lay, loud as the surge 
That lashes Laplaud's sounding shore.- 

I Lord hare mercy on us', the « Lay of the Last Minstrel" was no- 
( thing to this. 

2 See the ■ Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. ]\ever was any 
plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this produc- 
tion. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to 
Eaves' tragedy, unfortunately takes away the merit of originality 
from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell, 
in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, 
u a stark moss-trooper ;» videlicet, a happy compound of poacher, 
sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical la- 
dy's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid ac- 
knowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, 
although, to use his own elegant phrase, « 'twas his neck-verse at 
Hairibee." i. e. the gallows. 

3 The Biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian 
page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the 
aid of seven-leagued boots, are chefs-efceuvre in the improvement 
of taste. For incident we have the invisible, but by no means spa- 
ring, box on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a 
Knight and Charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise 

i of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter romance, is ex- 
actly what William of Deloraine would have been, had he been able 
to lead or write. The Poem was manufactured for Messrs Consta- 
ble, .Mi-RR.tr. and Miller, worsbipl'ul Booksellers, in consideration 
of the receipt of a sum of money ; and truly, considering the inspi- 
ration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr Scon will write 
for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, hut not disgrace his 
genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black-letter 
imitations. 



The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — 

A mighty mixture of the great and base. 

And think'st tliou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, 

On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 

Though Murray with his Miller may combine 

To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? 

No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 

Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 

Let such forego the poet's sacred name. 

Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: 

Low may they sink to merited contempt, 

And scorn remunerate the mean attempt! 

Such be their meed, such still the just reward 

Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! 

For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 

And bid a long « good night to Marmion. »< 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow: 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been when yet the muse was young, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Ma.ro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name: 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years. 2 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
>"ot so with us, though minor bards, content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent : 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger, Southey, rise! 
To him letC-AMOENs, Miltom, Tasso, yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England, and the boast of France! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche: 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin Phceuix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 3 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 

1 u Good night to Marmion,"— the pathetic and also prophetic ex- 
clamation of Hehrt Blocst, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion. 

2 As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the 
Iliad, tliej may almost be classed as one grand historical Poem. In 
alluding to Miltox and Tasso, we consider the u Paradise Lost" and 
* Gierusalemme Liberata » as their standard efforts, since neither 
the "Jerusalem Conquered > of the Italian, nor the « Paradise Re- 
gained » of the English Bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to 
their former poems. Query : Which of Mr Southet's will survive? 

3 Thalaba, Mr Soutrbt's second pcem, is written in open defiance 
of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something 
novel, and succeeded to a miracle. Joan of Arc was marvellous 
enough, but Thalaba was one of those poems « which (in the words 
of Porso>) will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — 
not till .'AtfH.- 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Now, Jast and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandevillc's, and not so true. 
Oli! Southey, Southey!' cease thy varied song! 
A Bard may chaunt too often and too long : 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! 
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say, 
Thou still wilt verseward plod tliy weary way, 
If still in Berkley ballads, most uncivil, 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, 2 
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: 
« God help thee,» Southey, and thy readers too. 3 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May; 
Who warns his friend « to shake off toil and trouble, 
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;»4 
Wlio, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane; 
And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme, 
Contain the essence of the true sublime: 
Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of «an idiot Boy;» 
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day, 5 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the « idiot in his glory, » 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode, and tumid stanza dear? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse,6 

1 We beg Mr Sootiiey's pardon : « Madoc disdains the degraded 
title cf epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded? and by 
whom? Certainly the late Romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat 
Pte, Ogilvy, Hoyle, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted 
the Epic Muse; but as Mr Southey's poem u disdains the appella- 
tion," allow us to ask— has he substituted any thing better in its 
stead ? or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Bucknore, in the 
quantity as well as quality of his verse. 

2 See The old Woman of Berkley, a Ballad by Mr Southey, where- 
in an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on u a high- 
trotting horse." 

3 The last line, « God help thee, » is an evident plagiarism from 
the Anti-Jacobin to Mr Southey on his Dactylics : 

u God help thee, silly one." — Poetry of the Anti-jacobin, p. 23. 

4 Lyrical Ballads, page 4- — u The tables turned." Stanza I. 

« Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks — 

Why all this toil and trouble? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 

Or surely you '11 grow double." 

5 Mr W., in his preface, labours hard to prove that prose and verse 
are much the same, and certainly his precepts and practice are 
strictly conformable: 

u And thus to Betty's questions he 

Made answer like a traveller bold ; 
The cock did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 

And the sun did shine so cold," etc., etc. 

Lyrical Ballads, page 129. 

6 Coleridge's Poems, page 11. Songs of the Pixies, t". e. Devon- 
shire Fairies. Page 42, we have u Lines to a Young Lady ;» and, p. 
52, u Lines to a Young Ass." 



Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
How well the subject suits his noble mind! 
« A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind!» 

Oh! wonder-working Lewis! Monk, or Bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard! 
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 
By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band; 
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, 
To please the females of our modest age, 
All hail, M. P. !' from whose infernal brain 
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; 
At whose command « grim women » throng in crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
With « small grey men,» — « wild yagers," and whatnot, 
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott : 
Again, all hail! If tales like thine may please, 
St Luke alone can vanquish the disease; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listeniug dames are hush'd? 
'T is Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral in his lay! 
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns: 
Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
She bids thee « mend thy line and sin no more.» 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford! with thine eyes of blue, 2 
And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense ; 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place 
By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace? 
Mend, Strangford! mend thy morals and thy taste; 
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: 
Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy Moore. 

In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
Hayley, in vain attempting something new : 
Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, 
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time, 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see « Temper's Triumphs» shine! 
At least, 1 'm sure, they triumph'd over mine. 

1 u For every one knows little Mat 's an M.P."— See a Poem to 
Mr Lewis, in The Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr Jekyll. 

2 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer 
to « Strangfobd's Camoens," page 127, note to page 56, or to the last 
page of the Edinburgh Beview of Stkasgford's Camoehs. It is also 
to be remarked, that the things given to the public as Poems of 
Camoens. are no more to be found in the original Portuguese than 
in the Song of Solomon. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of « Music's Triumphs » all who read may swear 
That luckless Music never triumph'd there.' 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull Devotion— lo! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St Luke, 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 3 

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
And shows, dissolved in thine own melting tears, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles? 
Thou first great oracle of tender souls! 
Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief, 
Or consolation in a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, 3 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend? 
Ah ! how much juster were thy Muse's hap, 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years : 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain : 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine : 
« Awake a louder and a loftier strain !»4 
Such as none heard before, or will again ; 
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
By more or less, are sung in every book, 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone, but pausing on the road, 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;5 
And gravely tells — attend each beauteous Miss! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
Stick to thy sonnets, man ! at least they sell. 

' Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are, « Triumphs 
of Temper, 11 and u Triumphs of Music." He has also written much 
comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc., etc. As he is rather an elegant 
writer of notes and biography, let us recommend Pope's advice to 
WrcHERLEY to Mr H.'s consideration; viz. « to convert his poetry 
into prose," which may be easily done by taking away the final syl- 
lable of each couplet. 

1 Mr Grahame has poured forth two volumes of Cant, under the 
name of « Sabbath Walks," and * Biblical Pictures." 

3 See Bowles's Sonnets, etc.— « Sonnet to Oxford," and « Stanzas 
on hearing the Bells of Ostend. » 

4 "Awake a iouder,» etc, etc., is the first line in Bowles's « Spirit 
of Discovery ;» a very spirited and pretty Dwarf Epic. Among other 
exquisite lines we have the following: — 

» ^ -. .-A kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 

Here beard ; they trembled even as if the power, • etc., etc. 
— That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much asto- 
nished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. 

5 The episode above alluded to is the story of « Bobert a Machin, 
and Annad'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss 
above-mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. 



But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 

Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe; 

If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 

Now, prone in dust, can only be revered; 

If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first 

[lave foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 

Do thou essay; each fault, each failing scan; 

The first of poets was, alas! but man ! 

Piake from each ancient dunghill every pearl, 

Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll; 1 

Let all the scandals of a former age 

Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page; 

Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, 

Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal; 

Write as if St John's soul could still inspire, 

And do from hale what Mallet 2 did for hire. 

Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 

To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme, 3 

Tlirong'd with the rest around his living head, 

Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, 

A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 

And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.4 

Another Epic! who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive! 
Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! 
Fresh fish from Helicon! who 'II buy? who '11 buy? 
The precious bargain 's cheap — in faith not I. 
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 
Too much o'er bowls of 'rack prolong the night: 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold! 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
Oh! Amos Cottle! Phoebus ! what a name 
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame ! 
Oh ! Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spread from pen and ink! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? 
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied! 
Had Cottle 5 still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, 

' Corll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a bookseller. 
Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervet, author of « Lines 
to the Imitator of Horace." 

2 Lord Bolisgbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his de- 
cease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord 
Bolingbroke (the Patriot King), which that splendid but malignant 
genius had ordered to be destroyed. 

3 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 

» Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls. 
Making night hideous — answer him ye owls !" — Dunciad. 

4 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he receive! 
3o4 I. : thus Mr B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit 
by the reputation of another, than to elevate his own. 

5 Mr Cottle, Amos or Joseph, I don't know which, but one or 
both, once sellers of books they did not w rite, and now writers of 
books that do not sell, have published a pair of Epics: u Alfred,* 
(poor Alfred 1 Pyb has been at him too !) and the Fall of u Cambria." 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves 

Dull Maurice ' all his granite weight of leaves: 

Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 

The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 

That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again. 

With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo ! sad Alcjsus wanders down the vale! 
Though fair they rose, and might have bloom' d at last, 
His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! 2 

Yet say! why should the Bard at once resign 
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl : 
A coward hrood, which mangle as they prey, 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
No mercy find— these harpies must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat? 3 

Health to immoral Jeffrey! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same : 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
And given the Spirit to the world again, 
To sentence letters as he sentenced men ; 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw. 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Rack to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the Judgment Seat? 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
« Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive — for thee reserved with care, 
To yield in judgment, and at length to wear.n 

Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in his future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
Can none remember that eventful day, 
Tliat ever-glorious, almost fatal fray, 

• Mr Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a pon- 
derous quarto, upon the beauties of « Richmond Hill » and the like : 
it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, 
Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. 

2 Poor Montgomery-, though praised by every English Review, has 
been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, the Bard of 
Sheffield is a man of considerable genius: his « Wanderer of Swit- 
zerland" is worth a thousand u Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty 
« Degraded Epics." 

J Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 



When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by? « 

O day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 

Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 

Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 

Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 

Tweed ruffled half his wave to form a tear, 

The other half pursued its calm career; 2 

Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 

The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place; 

The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 

On such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms : 3 

Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 

The sixteenth story, where himself was born, 

His patrimonial garret fell to ground, 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 

Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, 

Flow'dall the Canongate with inky streams; 

This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 

That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue, 

And all with justice deem'd the two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

But Caledonia's Ooddess hover'd o'er 

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore, 

From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 

And straight restored it to her favourite's head : 

That head, with greater than magnetic power, 

Caught it, as Danae the golden shower ; 

And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 

« My son,» she cried, « ne'er thirst for gore again, 

Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 

O'er politics and poesy preside, 

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 

For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 

So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 

Heboid a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 

First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen 

The travell'd Thane! Athenian Aberdeen. 4- 

Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, 5 and sometimes, 

In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 

i In 1806, Messrs Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. The 
duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy ; and, on 
examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the com- 
batants, were found to have evaporated. This incident gave occa- 
sion to much waggery in the daily prints. 

2 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum : it would have 
been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have 
shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 

3 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the prin- 
cipal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most 
affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be ap- 
prehended, that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front 
might have rendered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of 
the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly fe- 
minine, though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 

4 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athe- 
nian Society, and reviewer of « Gell's Topography of Troy.» 

5 Mr Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other Poetry. One 
of the principal pieces is a u Song on the Recovery of Thor's Ham- 
mer." The translation is a pleasant chaunt in the vulgar tongue, 
and ended thus: — 

« Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
The hammer's bruises were her lot ; 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 



3i 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Smug Sydney ■ too thy bitter page shall seek, 
And classic Hallam, 2 much renown' d for Greek. 
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
j And paltry Pillans 3 shall traduce his friend : 
j While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe, 4 
1 As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. 
I Known he thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
To Holland's hirelings, and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution, — ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham 5 destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail.» 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. 6 
Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 
Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof, 
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his pen, review his lordship's work, 
And, grateful to the founder of the feast, 
Declare his landlord can translate, at least ! 7 
Dunedin! view thy children with delight, 
They write for food, and feed, because they write: 
And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape, 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 

1 The Rev. SroxEr Smith, the reputed Author of Peter Plymley's 
Letters, and sundry criticisms. 

2 Mr Halum reviewed Patse ELijight s Taste, and was exceedingly 
severe on some Greek verses therein : it was not discovered that the 
lines were Pindar's, till the press rendered it impossible to cancel 
the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of Hal- 
lan's ingenuity. 

The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, saying- 
thai he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry — 
not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand his lord- 
ship's feasts are preferable to his compositions. If he did not review- 
Lord Hollasd's performance, I am glad, because it must have been 
painful to read, and irksome to praise it. If Mr Hallam will tell 
; me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text, 
! provided nevertheless the said name be of two orthodox musical syl- 
j lables, and will come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must stand 
: for want of a better. 

3 Ptllaks is a tutor at Eton. 

4 The Hon. G. Lambe reviewed « Bebbsfobd's Miseries;" and is 
moreover author of a Farce enacted with much applause at the 
Priory, Stanmore, and damned with great expedition at the late 
Theatre Covent-Garden. It was entitled u Whistle for it.» 

5 Mr Brougham, in Xo XXV of the Edinburgh Pieview, throughout 
the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed more 
politics than policy ; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh be- 
ing so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have 
withdrawn their subscriptions. 

It seems that Mr Brougham is not a Pict. as I supposed, but a bor- 
ilerer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay. So be it. 

6 I ought to apolojise to the worthy Deities for introducing a new 
Goddess with short petticoats to their notice ; but, alas ! what was to 
be done ? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it being well known 
there is no Genius to be found, from Clackmannan to Caithness : yet 
without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The 
" national Kelpies," etc. are too unp-etical, and the «BrownieS" and 
u Gude Xeighboursn (Spirits of a good disposition.) refused to extri- 
cate him. A Goddess therefore has been called for the purpose, and 
great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only com- 
munication he ever held or is likely to hold with any thing heavenly. 

1 Lord H- has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega inserted 
in his Life of the Author : both are bepraised by his disinterested 
guest. 



And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error and refines the whole. * 

Now to the Drama turn : Oh motley sight! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 2 
And Dikdin's nonsense, yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Bosciomania 's o'er, 
And full-grown actors are endured once more; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
While British critics suffer scenes like these? 
While Beynqlds vents his « dammes, poohs, and 

zounds, » 3 
And common-place, and common sense confounds? 
While Kenny's World, just suffer'd to proceed, 
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed ! 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words } A 
Who but must mourn while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage? 
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? 
Have we no living bard of merit? — none! 
Awake, George Colman, Cumberland, awake! 
B.ing the alarum-bell, let folly quake! 
Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy resume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of German schools, 
Leave new Pizarros to trauslating fools; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic Drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Foliy rear her head 
Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread? 
On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask, 
And Hooke conceal his heroes in a cask? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massi.nger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, 
For skiriless coats and skeletons of plays 
Benown'd alike; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; 5 
Nor sleeps with « Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,*> 
While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; 

1 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed her 
matchless wit in the Edinburgh Beview : however that may be, we 
know from good authority that the manuscripts are submitted to her 
perusal — no doubt for correction. 

2 In the melo-drame of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a 
barrel on the stage— a new asylum for distressed heroes. 

3 All these are favourite expressions of Mr R., and prominent in 
his Comedies, living and defunct. 

4 Mr T. SnEBiDAir, the new Manager of Drury-Lane Theatre, 
stripped the Tragedy of Bonduca of the Dialogue, and exhibited the 
scenes as the spectacles of Caractacus. Was this worthy of his sire, 
or of himself? 

5 Mr Greei>wood is, we believe, Scene-Painter to Drury-Lane The- 
atre : as such Mr S. is much indebted to him. 

6 Mr S. is the illustrious author of the « Sleeping Beauty ;» and 
some Comedies, particularly « Maids and Bachelors ;" Baccalaurei 
baculo magis quam lauro digni. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



But as some hands applaud, a venal few! 
Rather tlian sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now, all i wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn! 
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dulness, do ye fear to blame? 
"Well may the nobles of our present race. 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; 
Well may they smile ou Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons,' 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays; 
While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil : 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe : 
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng! 
Piaise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice! 
Pieforming saints, too delicately nice! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave, 
And beer undrawn and beards unmown display 
Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle ! 2 
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
Behold the new Petronius 3 of the day, 
The arbiter of pleasure and of play! 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
The song from Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
The smile of beauty, and the Hush of wine, 
For fops^ fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : 
Each to his humour, — Comus all allows; 
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 

1 >'aldi and Catala>-i require little notice, for the visage'of the 
one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to recollect 
these amusing vagabonds ; besides we are still black and blue from 
the squeeze on the first night of the lady's appearance in trowsers. 

2 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I 
beg leave to state, that it is the Institution, and not the Duke of 
that name, which is here alluded to. 

A gentleman with whom I am , slightly acquainted, lost in the 
Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon. It is but 
justice to the manager in this instance to say, that some degree of 
disapprobation was manifested.^ But why are the implements of 
gaming allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes? A 
pleasant thing for the wives and daughters of those who are blest or 
cursed with such connexions, to hear the: billiard-tables rattling in 
one room, and the dice in another! That this is the case I myself 
can testify, as a late unworthy member of an institution which ma- 
terially affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may 
not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance 
of indictment for riotous behaviour. 

3 Petronius. " arbiter elegantiarum » to Xero, u and a very pretty 
fellow in his dav,» as Mr Cosgreve's old Bachelor saith. 



Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! 
Of piteous ruin which ourselves have made : 
In plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of Poverty, except «en masque,» 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was, 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
The audience take their turn upon the floor; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
New in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters lea]) : 
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
The last display the free unfetter'd limb : 
Those for Ilibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which Nature could not spare; 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease! 
Where, all forgotten but the power to please, 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught: 
There the blithe youngster just return'd from Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main : 
The jovial caster 's set and seven 's the nick, 
Or — done!— a thousand on the coming trick! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
And all your hope or wish is to expire, 
Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife. 
Fit consummation of an earthly race 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath : 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 
The mangled victims of a drunken brawl, 
To live like Clodivs, 1 and like Falkland 2 fall. 
Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand, 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
Even I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skiil'd to know the right and chuse the wrong, 
Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost. 
To fight my course through Passion's countless host, 
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal; 
Although some kind censorious friend will say, 
«What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?n 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist, in me. 
No matter — when some bard, in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; 
Bejoice, and yield my feeble praise; though I 
May feel the lash that virtue must apply. 

1 Mutato nomine de te 
Fabula narratur. 
2 I knew the late Lord Falklasd well. On Sunday night I beheld 
him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospita- 
lity ; on Wednesday morning at threeo'clock, Isaw, stretched before 
me, all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He 
was a gallant and successful officer ; his faults weri the faults of a 
sailor— as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave man 
in a better cause, for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of the 
frigate to which he was just appointed, his last moments would have 
j been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes. 
I 5 



34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals, 
From silly Hafiz > up to simple Bowles, 
Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
In broad St Giles's or in Tottenham Road? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square? 
If tilings of ton their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
What harm? in spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards: such things at times befal, 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes? 
Pioscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle : 
The puny school-boy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away; 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer! 2 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage : 
But managers for once cried « hold, enough !» 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
And ease his volumes in congenial calf: 
Yes! doff that covering where morocco shines, 
And hang a calf-skin 3 on those recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread, 
With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On « all the talents » vent your venal spleen, 
Want your defence, lei pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantle 4 prove a blanket too! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And peace be with you! 't is your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give, 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 
But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 

1 What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, 
could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he re- 
poses with Ferdousi and Sad r, the Oriental Homer and Catullus, and 
behold his name assumed by one Sroix of Dromore, the most impu- 
dent and execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints? 

2 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny 
pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan for building a 
new theatre: it is to be hoped his lordship will be permitted to bring 
forward any thing for the stage, except his own tragedies. 

3 « Doff that lion's hide, 
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 

Shaks. King John. 

Lord C.'s works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous or- 
nament to his book-shel . es : 

" The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
4 Melville's Mantle, a parody on « Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 



Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 1 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, 
Some stragglers skirmish round their columns still; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q. 2 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, 
Heavens! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud! 
How ladies read, and literati laud! 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'T is sheer ill-nature, don't the world know best? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
And Capel Lofft 3 declares 't is quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! 
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade; 
Lo ! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Fate. 
Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you, 
Bloomfield, why not on brother Nathan too? 
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: 
And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
No common be inclosed, without an odeA 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic and mechanic soul : 
Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 
Compose at once a slipper and a song; 
So shall the fair your handiwork peruse; 
Your sonnets sure shall please— perhaps your shoes. 
May Moorland 5 weavers boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems— when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
Neglected Genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth, O Campbell! 6 give thy talents scope; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope? 
And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, 
Recal the pleasing memory of the past; 

1 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K 

seems to be a follower of the Delia Crusca School, and has published 
two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; 
besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk. ' 

2 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the 
poetical departments of the newspapers. 

3 Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, and Preface- 
writer general to distressed versemen ; a kind of gratis accoucheur 
to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to 
bring it forth. 

4 See Nathaniel Bcoomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any 
one else chuses to call it, on the enclosure of «Honington Green." 

5 Vide « Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Stafford- 
shire." 

6 It would be superfluous to recal to the mind of the reader the 
authors of « The Pleasures of Memory," and « The Pleasures of Hope," 
the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except 
Pope's Essay on Man : but so many poetasters have started up, that 
even the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



35 



Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire, 

And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ! 

Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 

Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 

What! must deserted Poesy still weep 

Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 

Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns! 

No ; though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. 

The race who rhyme from folly, or for food; 

Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast, 

Who, least affecting, still affect the most; 

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 

Bear witness, Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil. 1 

«Why slumbers Gifford ?» once was ask'd in vain: 3 
Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again : 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge? 
Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street? 
Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the laws' and Muse's wrath ! 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future lime, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White! 3 while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! 
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit. 
'T was thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : 
Keen were bis pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel, 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be who say in these enlighten'd days 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'T is true that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius— trite; 

' Gifforii, author of the Baviad and Majviad, the first satires of 
the clay, and translator of Juvenal. 

Sotheby, translator of Wielasd'« Oberon and Virgil's Georgics, 
and author of Saul, an epic poem. 

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular : particularly 
"Scotland's Scaith, or the Waes of War," of which ten thousand 
copies were sold in one month. 

2 Mr Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and Maeviad 
should not be his last original woiks : let him remember, «mox in 
reluctantes dracones.» 

3 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, iSo6,in con- 
sequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies, that would 
have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, 
and which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems 
abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest 
regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have 
dignified evou the sacred functions be was destined to assume. 



Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires: 
This fact, in virtue's name let Crabbe attest — 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee 1 and genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, 
While honours doubly merited attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore : 
But doubly blest is he whose beart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye! 
Wright ! 2 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen, 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate Bards ! 3 who snateb'd to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, 
And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue, 
Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause, 
Restore the Muse's violated laws: 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme; 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now worn down, appear in native brass; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around, 
Evaporate in similes and sound: 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.4 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to LAMBEand Lloyd; 5 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 

« Mr Shee, author of u Bhymes on Art,» and u Elements of Art. » 

2 Mr Wright, late Consul-General for the Seven Islands, is author 
of a very beautiful poem just published : it is entitled « Horse Ion ica?,» 
and is descriptive of the Isles and the adjacent coast of Greece. 

3 The translators of the Anthology have since published separate 
poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to attain 
eminence. 

4 The neglect of the u Botanic Garden » is some proof of returning 
taste : the scenery is its soL> recommendation. 

5 Messrs Lambe and Llotb, the most ignoble followers of Southey 
and Co. 



36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The native genius with their feeling given 

Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott!' resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a Border feud : 
Let others spin their meagre rhymes for hire — 
Enough for genius if itself inspire! 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
Prolific every string, be too profuse; 
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; 
Letspectre-mongering Lewis aim at most, 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost; 
Let Moore be lewd; let Strangford steal from Moore, 
And swear thatCAMOENS sang such notes of yore: 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
And godly Grahame chaunt a stupid stave; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line : 
Let Stott, Carlisle, 2 Matilda, and the rest 
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best, 
Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
Or common sense assert her rights again : 
But thou, -with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, 
Demand a hallow' d harp — that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
For outlaw' d Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
But own the vast renown a world can yive ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recal, 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

1 By the bye, I hope that in Mr Scott's next poem his hero or he- 
roine will be less addicted io «gramarye,» and more to grammar, 
than the Lady of the Lay. and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 

2 It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my 
guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems 
a few years ago. The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I 
have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am 
very sorry for it ; but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a very 
essential occasion to me, I shall not burthen my memory with there- 
collection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust 
condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but I see no reason why they 
should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has 
for a series of years beguiled a « discerning publics (as the odver- 
tisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial 
nonsense. Besides I do not step aside to vituperate the Earl: no— his 
works come fairly in review with those of other patrician literati. If, 
before I escaped from my teens, I said any thing in favour of his 
lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and 
more from the advice of others than my own judgment, and I seize 
the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have 
heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord 
Carlisle : if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they 
are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated aod 
publicly acknowledged. What I havehumbly advanced as an opinion 
on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by 
quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain face- 
tious and dainty tragedies, bearing his name and mark: 

u What can ennoble knaves or fools, or cowards? 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards !» 
SosavsPoPE. Amen. 



Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors 1 fill the applauding skies: 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim, 
The transient mention of a dubious name! 
When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, 
And glory, like the phcenix, 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at pujjgg|j£j 
Shall these approach the muse? ah, no! she Hies, 
And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Koyle : 
Nor, him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 2 
Ye, who in Gran fa's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ! 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 
There Clarke, still striving piteously « to please,» 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furnish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind — 
Himself a living libel on mankind. 3 
dark asylum of a Vandal race!4 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; 
So sunk in dulness and so lost in shame, 
That Smythe and Hodgson 5 scarce redeem thy fame ! 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave; 
On her green banks a greener wreath is wove, 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove, 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modern Britons justly praise their sires. 6 

For me, who thus, unask'd, have dared to tell 
My country what her sons should know too well, 
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age. 

1 a Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora.n — Virgil. 

2 The "Games of Hoyle,» wrll known to the votaries of whilst 
chess, etc. are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical 
namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the adver- 
tisement, all the « Plagues of Egypt. » 

s This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid symptoms 
of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated the u Art 
of Pleasing," as « lucus a non lucendo," containing little pleasantry, 
and less poetry. lie also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector 
of calumnies for the Satirist. If this unfortunate young man would 
exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take 
a decent degree in his university, it might eventually prove more 
serviceable than his present salary. 

4 ulnto Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a con- 
siderable body of Vandals. n— Gibbon's Decline and Full, page 8 3, 
vol. 2. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion— the 
breed is still in high perfection. 

5 This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man who in 
translation displays unquestionable genius, may well be expected to 
excel in original composition, of which it is to be hoped we shall 
soon see a splendid specimen. 

6 The u Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by RicnvRDs. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



3 7 



No just applause her honour' d name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh, would thy hards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'T is thine at once, fair Albion, to have been 
Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen : 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter' d in the main: 
Like these thy strength may sink in*ruin hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, aud dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning- ever seoff'd at, till too late; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, 
And old dame Portland « fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale : 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's 2 adverse height, 
And Stamboul's 3 minarets must greet my sight : 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's 4 native clime, 
Where Kaff 5 is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows 

sublime. 
But should I back return, no letter'd rage 
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage : 
Let vain Yalentia 6 rival luckless Carr, 
And equal him whose work he sought to mar; 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin 7 still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art : 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to classic Gell;8 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun mankind with poesy or prose. 

Thus far I 've held my undislurb'd career, 
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear: 
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 

1 A frieud of mine being asked why Lis Grace of P. was likened 
to an old woman? replied, « he supposed it was because he was past 
bearing, n 

2 Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. 

3 Slamboul is ihe Turkish word lor Constantinople. 

4 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 

5 Mount Caucasus. 

6 Lord Valextia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming, 
with due decorations, graphical, topographical, and typographical) 
deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Dubois' satire pre- 
vented his purchase of the « Stranger in Ireland."— Oh tie, my 
Lord! has your lordship no more feeling lor a fellow-tourist? but 
« two of a trade, » they say, etc. 

7 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with 
and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias! 
"Credat Judseus.» 

8 Mr Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail to ensure 
the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well 
for the information Mr G. conveys to the mind of the reader, as for 
the ability and research the respective works display. 



My voice was heard again, though not so loud ; 

My page, though nameless, never disavow'd, 

And now at once I tear the veil away : 

Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, 

Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE-house, 

By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 

By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 

Edina's brawny sons aud brimstone page. 

Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 

And feel they too are « penetrable stuff :» 

And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 

Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 

The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, 

Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 

The meanest tiling that crawl'd beneath my eyes: 

But now, so callous grown, so changed siuce youth, 

I 've learned to think and sternly speak the truth ; 

Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 

And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 

To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 

Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: 

Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 

I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 

And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 

To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 

Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay 

Hath wrong' d these righteous times, let others say; 

This let the world, which knows not how to spare, 

Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



I have been informed, since the present edition went 
to the press, that my trusty and well beloved cousins, 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- 
ment critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting muse, 
whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly 
ribaldry : 

u Tant«eue animis ccclestibus irac!* 
I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek saith, « an I had known he was so cunning of 
fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him.» 
What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus 
before the next number has passed the Tweed ! But 
yet I hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of 
personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, 
Jeffrey : but what else was to be done with him and his 
dirty pack, who feed « by lying and slandering," and 
slake their thirst by « evil-speaking?» I have adduced 
facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have 
stated my free opinion ; nor has he thence sustained 
any injury: what scavenger was ever soiled by being 
pelted with mud ? It may be said that I quit England 
because I have censured there « persons of honour and 
wit about town ;» but I am coming back again, and 
their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those 
who know me can testify that my motives for leaving 
England are very different from fears, literary or per, 
soual; those who do not, may one day be convinced. 

1 Published to the Second Edition. 



38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Since the publication of this thing, my name has not 
been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready 
to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expecta- 
tion of sundry cartels; but, alas! « The age of chi- 
valry is over;» or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no 
spirit now-a-days. 

There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, 
Esq.), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen 
of Berwick upon Tweed, whom I have introduced in 
these pages to much better company than he has been 
accustomed to meet: he is, notwithstanding, a very sad 
dog, and, for no reason that I can discover, except a 
personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge 
to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his 
Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been 
abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent 
above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some 
months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him 
any provocation; indeed I am guiltless of having heard 
his name, till it was coupled with the Satirist. He has, 
therefore, no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than other- 
wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the 
honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my 
book, except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, 
is a gentleman. God wot ! 1 wish he could impart a little 
of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
that Mr Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for 
his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hope not ; he was one 
of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had 



with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and 
whatever he may say or do, « pour on, I will endure. » 
I have nothing further to add, save a general note of 
thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, 
in the words of Scott, I wish 

« To all and each a fair good night, 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light.* 



The following Lines were written by Mr Fitzgerald, in 

a Copy of English" Bards and Scotch Reviewers : — 

I find Lord Byron scorns my muse — 

Our fates are ill agreed! 
His verse is safe — I can't abuse 
Those lines I never read. 

W. F. F. 



His Lordship accidentally met with tlie Copy, and 

subjoined the following pungent Reply: — 
What 's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read; — 
What 's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed. 
The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz : — 
Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits, 
Or rather woidd be, if, for time to come, 
They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb — 
But, to their pens, while scribblers add their tongues, 1 
The waiter only can escape their lungs. 

l Mr Fitzgerald is in the habit of reciting his own poetry. — See 
note to English Bards, p. 26. 



A ROMAUNT. 



L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page, quand on n'a vue que son pays. J'en 
ai feuillete* un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouve'es egalement mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point ete 
infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vdcu, 
m'ont reconcilie avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en 
regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 



The following poem was written, for the most part, 
amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- 
vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- 
cessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. 
The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, 
Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There 
for the present the poem stops : its reception will 
determine whether the author may venture to conduct 
his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and 
Phrygia : these two cantos are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece; which, however, 
makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- 
gested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high 
value, that in this fictitious character, « Childe Harold, » 
I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real 
personage : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — 



Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I 
have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those 
merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; 
but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appella- 
tion « Childe,» as « Childe Waters," « Childe Childers,» 
etc., is used as more consonant with the old structure of 
versification which I have adopted. The « Good night, » 
in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by 
« Lord Maxwell's Good Night,» in the Border Minstrelsy, 
edited by Mr Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published 
on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight 
coincidence in the first part, which treats of the penin- 
sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception 
of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem 
was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr Beattie 
makes the following observation : « Not long ago I 
began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in 
which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



3 9 



and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti- 
mental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me ; 
for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted, 
admits equally of all these kinds of composition. »> — 
Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by 
the example of some in the highest order of Italian 
poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar 
variations in the following composition; satisfied that, 
if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the 
execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the 
practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our periodical jour- 
nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. 
To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I 
have nothing to object; it would ill become me to 
quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when 
perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more 
candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best 
thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I 
venture an observation. Amongst the many objections 
justly urged to the very indifferent character of the 
« vagrant Childe» (whom, notwithstanding many hints 
to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious per- 
sonage), it has been stated that, besides the anachron- 
ism, he is very unknicjhtly , as the times of the knights 
were times of love, honour, and so forth. Now it so 
happens that the good old times, when « l'amour du 
bon vieux temps, l'amour antique» flourished, were the 
most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who 
have any doubts on this subject may consult St Palaye, 
passim, and more particularly vol. ii, page G9. The 
vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other 
vows whatsoever, and the songs of the Troubadours 
were not more decent, and certainly were much less 
refined, than those of Ovid. — The « Cours d'amour, par- 
lemens d'amour, ou de courtoisie et de gentilesse,» had 
much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. — See 
Roland on the same subject with St Palaye. — Whatever 
other objection may be urged to that most unamiable 
personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knight- 
ly in his attributes — « No waiter, but a knight tem- 
plar." 2 — By the bye, I fear that Sir Tristram and Sir 
Lancelot were no better than they should be, although 
very poetical personages and true knights « sans peur,» 
though not « sans reproche.» — If the story of the insti- 
tution of the « Garter » be not a fable, the knights of 
that order have for several centuries borne the badge of 
a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So 
much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted 
that its days are over, though Marie Antoinette was 
quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of an- 
cient and modern times), few exceptions will be found 
to this statement, and I fear a little investigation will 
teach us not to regret those monstrous mummeries of 
the middle ages. 

I now leave « Childe Harold » to live his day, such as 
he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more 
easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been 
easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more 

1 Beattie's Letters. 

2 Ths Rovers. — Antijacobin. 



and express less, but he never was intended as an ex- 
ample, further than to show that early perversion of 
mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and 
disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties 
of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, 
the most powerful of all excitements), are lost on a soul 
so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded 
with the poem, this character would have deepened as 
he drew to the close, for the outline which I once 
meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, 
the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical 
Zeluco. 



TO 1ANTHE. 



Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
Though beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd ; 
Not in those visions tc the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreanrd, 
Hath aught like thee, in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall 1 vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as theybeam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
speak ? 

Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond hope's imagining! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West!— 't is well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline, 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd with pangs to love's even loveliest hours de- 
creed. 

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
"Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend: 
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why 
To one so young, my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined j 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
Ou Harold's page, Ian die's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire; 
Though more than hope can claim, could friendship 
less require? 



4o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 

PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse! form'd or fahled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft hy later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I've wander'd hy thy vaunted rill; 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 1 
Where, save that feehle fountain, all is still; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

II. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night; 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

HI. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day: 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly; 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done, 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befel; 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. 



For he through sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss, 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lauds to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 



VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 
'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost longd for woe, 

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
below. 

VII. 
The Childe departed from his father s hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile: 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile! 
Where superstition once had made her den, 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; 
And monks might deem their time was comeagen, 

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 

VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangswould flash along Childe Harold's brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; 
For his was not that open, artless soul, 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea, none did love him — not his lernans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun : 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; 
Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynimshores, and pass earth's central line. 



1 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 4l 


XII. 


5. 

' My father bless'd me fervently, 
\et did not much complain; 

But sorely will my mother sigh 
. Till I come back again.' — 

« Enough, enough, my little lad, 
Such tears become thine eye ; 

If I thy guileless bosom had, 
Mine own would not be dry. 


The sails were fill'd, and fair the light -winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home; 
And fast the -white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 


XIII. 


6. 


But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy "wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 


« Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 

Why dost thou look so pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale?» — 
' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 

Sir Childe, I 'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 


Thus to the elements he pour'd his last « Good Night. » 


1 


i. 

« Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 


' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make?' — 
« Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 


Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 


Thy grief let none gainsay; 
But 1, who am of lighter mood, 
Will laugh to flee away. 


My native Land— Good Night! 




2. 

« A few short hours and he will rise 


8. 
« For who would trust the seeming sighs 
Of wife or paramour? 


To give the morrow birth; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 

My dog howls at the gate. 


Fresh feercs will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 


3. 
« Come hither, hither, my little page ! 

Why dost thou weep and wail? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 

Our ship is swift and strong: 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along. » 


9- 
« And now I 'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea: 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands; 
But long ere I come back again, 

He 'd tear me where he stands. 


4- 


10. 


' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 


« With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go 


I fear not wave nor wind ; 


Athwart the foaming brine; 


Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 


Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 


Am sorrowful in mind; 


So not again to mine. 


For I have from my father gone, 


Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves ' 


A mother whom I love, 


And when you fail my sight, 


And have no friend, save these alone, 


Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 


But thee — and one above. 


My native Land — Good Night !» 

6 



45 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 

Ou, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Uiscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay; 
And Ciutra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And T.igus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 

XV. 

Oh ! Christ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! 
What fruils of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble vengeauce will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 

XVI. 
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
Hut now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford: 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily, 
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt. 

Though shentwith Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
unhurt. 

XVIII. 
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 

Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must w : eep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
31ix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 



XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest ye at « our Ladv's house of woe;» 2 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punished been, and lo ! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
3Iark many rude-caned crosses near the path : 
Vet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.3 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe; 
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : 
There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware 
When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
.Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide : 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide! 

XXIV. 
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened: 4 
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! 
With diadem bight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe arrav'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all his soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turned a nation's shallow jov to gloom. 
Here folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And policy regain'd what arms had lost : 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! 
Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Since baffled triumph droops on Lusitania's coast! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



43 



XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 

Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 

And folks in office at the mention fret, 

And fain would hlush, if hlush they could, for shame. 

How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 

Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 

To view these champions cheated of their fame, 

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 

Where scorn her finger points through many a coming 
year? 

XXVII. 
So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; 

But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits, 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 5 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share subjection's woes. 



XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
Or Dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul : 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distiuguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 6 

XXXIV. 

But, ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?7 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious, to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Bed gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent paie, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matron's wail. 

XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the mighty shrink into a song! 
Can volume, pillar, pile preserve the great? 
Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue, 
When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does thee 
wrong? 

XXXVII. 

Awake ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar : 
In every peal she calls — « Awake ! arise !» 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 



44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xxxviir. 

Hark! — heard you not those hoofs of dreadful uote? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath 1 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Pied Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar,^and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 

XL. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallaut war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 

XLH. 

There shall they rot — ambition's honour'd fools ! 
Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what?-— a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? 

XLI1I. 

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song ! 



XLIV. 

Enough of battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth, 't were sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good, 
And die, that living might have proved her shame; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free— the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'gainst fate to strive 
Where desolation plants her famished brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, 
And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds : 
Not here war's clarion, but love's rebeck sounds ; 
Here folly still his votaries enthralls : 
And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds 
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, 
Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic— with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah ! monarcbs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and man be happy yet. 

XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ! 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 
No ! as he speeds, he chaunts : — « Viva el Bey !» 8 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy. 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darken'd vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



45 



And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet :9 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wrapped beneath the cloak, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 10 

Lir. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway 
A moment pauseth e'er he lifts the rod; 
A little moment deigneth to delay: 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; 
The West must own the scourger of the world. 
Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, 
And thou shaltview thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd ! 

liii. 

And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, 
To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign? 
No step between submission and a grave? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? 
Is all that desperate valour acts in vain? 
And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, 

The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart 
of steel? 

LIV. 
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the aulace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
And she whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 

Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to 
tread. 

LV. 
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
Heard her light lively tones in lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face, 

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase. 



LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear; 
Her chief- is slain — she fills his fatal post; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall? 11 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love: 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness, as in firmness, far above 
Bemoter females, famed for sickening prate; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : 12 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 
Who round the north for paler dames would seek? 

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and 
weak. 

LIX. 
Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud; 
Match me, ye haramsof the land! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; 
Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to know 
There your wise prophet's paradise we find, 

His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus!' 3 whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ! 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
W T ould gladly woo thine echoes with his string, 

Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave 
her wing. 

LXI. 
Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 't is, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 

In silent joy to think at last I look on thee ! 



46 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest hards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallovv'd scene, 
Which otliers rave of, though they know it not? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Even amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair mount! when Greece was 

young, 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, 
Nursed in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though glory fly her glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;>4 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze, 
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by time— accursed time! 
The queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white : 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Pier worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 



LXV1II. 

The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: 
Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artizan, 
And smug apprentice, gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
Others along the safer turnpike fly; 
Some Bichmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why?' 5 
'T is to the worship of the solemn horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till 



LXXL 

All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare, 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames, abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest,goldspur,andlight-poiscd lance, 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance; 
Bich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



47 



LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds; but not before 
The ground with cautious tread is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed, 
Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd ; away, 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer: 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear; 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; 
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellovvings speak 
his woes. 

LXXVII. 

Again lie comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed isstretch'd a mangled corse; 
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source, 
Though death-struck still his feeble frame he rears, 
Staggering, butstemmingall, his lord unharm'd he bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies, 
He stops— he starts— disdaining to decline ; 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. 
The decorated car appears— on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 



LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 

The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 

Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 

In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 

What private feuds the troubled village stain! 

Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, 

Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, 

To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 

For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 
But jealousy has fled; his bars, his bolts, 
His wither' d sentinel, duenna sage! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage), 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 

While on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time and oft had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.' 6 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; 
Not that philosophy on such a miud 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: 
But passion raves itself to rest, or flies; 
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow cursed Cain's unresting doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Poui'd forth this unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. 



TO INEZ. 



Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, 

Alas! I cannot smile again; 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang even thou must fail to soothe? 

3. 
It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low ambition's honours lost, 
That bids me loathe my present state, 

And fly from all I prized the most ; 

4- 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see; 

To me no pleasure beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

5. 
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
That -will not look beyond the tomb, 

But cannot hope for rest before. 

6. 
What exile from himself can flee? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life— the demon thought. 

7- 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake; 
Oh! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 



Through many a clime 't is mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst; 

And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I 've known the worst. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the hell that 's there. 

LXXXV. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free, and last to be subdued: 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:'7 
Here all were noble, save nobility; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate! 
They fight for freedom who were never free; 
A kingless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of treachery: 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to liberty; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, « war even to the knife !» l8 



lxxxvh. 

Ye who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleachingstain, 
Long mark the battle field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees; 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
Bepairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
Not Albuera, lavish of the dead, 
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
Wiien shall her olive-branch be free from blight?. 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ? 

XCI. 

And thou, my friend!'9 — since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid even friendship to complain: 
But thus unlaurelld, to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? 

XCII. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most, 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear' 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here! 
And morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn' d and mourner lie united in repose. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



49 



XCIII. 

Here is one fytte 7 of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern critic! say not so : 
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
quelle! . 



CANTO II. 



i. 

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire, 1 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire ; 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 

That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 3 

II. 
Ancient of days! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? 
Gone, glimmering thro' the dream of things that were; 
First in the race that led to glory's goal, 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole? 
A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour ? 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 

Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. 

III. 

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : 
'T was Jove's — 't is Mahomet's — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; 

Poor child of doubt and death, whose hope is built on 
reeds. 

IV. 
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
Thou art ? Is (his a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 

That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 



Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: 3 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: 
Is that a temple where a god may dwell? 
Why even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, 
And passion's host, that never brook'd control ; 
Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
« All that we know is, nothing can be known. r> 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers grcan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samiansage, and all who taught the right! 

IX. 

There, thou! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
When busy memory flashes on my brain ? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
If aught of young remembrance ihen remain, 
Be as it may futurity's behest, 
For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base • 
Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne : 4 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor even can fancy's eye 
Restore what time hath labour'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh — 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 

7 



5o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
England! I joy no child he was of thine: 
Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 5 

XII. 

But most the modern Pitts ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared : 6 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,7 
And never knew, till then, the weight of despot's chains. 

XIII. 

What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 

XIV. 

Where was thine aegis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and havoc on their way? 8 
Where Peleus' son ? whom hell in vain enthrali'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day, 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 

XV. 

Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 

Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 

Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 

Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 

By British hands, which it had best behoved 

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 

Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 

And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 

And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XVI. 
But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 

And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 



XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,9 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides: 
Or school-boy midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 

XIX. 
White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their strength 
to nerve. 

XX. 

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these! 

XXI. 

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



D i 



XXIII. 
'T is night, when meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When youth itself survives young love and joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy! 
Ah ! happy years ! ouce more who would not be a boy] 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseeu, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean — 
This is not solitude ; 't is but to hold 

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her store* 
unroll'd. 

XXVI. 
But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued : 

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; 
Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well-known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the coutrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is well. 



XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, '• 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urg'd from high to yonder tide; 

While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine": 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er. 

xxxir. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, *t was said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
All that gay beauty from her bondsmen claims : 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger 
dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
I!ut Harold on such 3rts no more relied ; 
And had he doated on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lovers' whining crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: 
Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk confidence still best with woman copes; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crowns thy 
hopes. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXV. 

'T is an old lesson ; time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease 
Not to be cured when love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive sadness, not by fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear nature is the kindest mother still, 

Though always changing, in her aspect mild ; 

From her bare bosom let me take my fill; 

Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 

Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 

Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 

To me by day or night she ever smiled, 

Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 

And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
wrath. 

XXXVIII. 
Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he, his namesake, -whose oft-baftled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania! ll let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 

Through many a cypress-grove within each city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 12 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only heaven to which earth's children may aspire. 

XL. 

'T was on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;' 3 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
wight. 



XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,'4 
He felt, or deem'd he fell, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow, 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch' d the billows' melancholy How, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the v/olf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 

XLHI. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view; 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet, 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 

Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
heat. 

XLIV. 
Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear, 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 

Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Boman chief and Asian king l5 
To doubtful conflict, cerlain slaughter bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! l6 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose? 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Even to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



53 



XLVI1. 
He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 1 ? 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief,' 8 whose dread command 
Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.'9 

XLVI1I. 

Monastic Zitza! 20 from thy shady brow, 
TIiou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, ahove, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 

Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
soul. 

XLIX. 
Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer, 21 nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by 
Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee 

From hence, if he delight kind nature's sheen to see. 



Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 

Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 22 

Chimaera's Alps extend from left to right : 

Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir 

Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! 23 

Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 

Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, 

Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 
noue ! 

LII. 
Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills! here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 2 -i 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 

Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 



LIII. 

Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine? 
All, all forgotten— and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? 
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldstthou survive the marble or the oak? 

When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath 
the stroke ! 

LIV. 
Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever spring yclad in grassy dye : 
Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 

Or with the moon-beams sleep in midnight's solemn 
trance. 

LV. 
The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 25 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; 26 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Guide Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 

Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the iength'ning glen. 

LVL 

He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, 
And, underneath the wide o'erarching gate, 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparations shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; 



With 



a palace, and without, a fort: 



Mere men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVIL 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store 
Circled the wide-extending court below : 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor; 
And oft-times through the Area's echoing door 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurrd his steed away: 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 

While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close 
of day. 

LYIII. 
The wild Albanian kirtlcd to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 

Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 



54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, andsomethatplay, are found; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
«ThereisnogodbutGod ! — to prayer — lo! God is great !» 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one ber person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove •. 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast no meaner passion shares. 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
A li reclined, a man of war and woes; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 

LXIH. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
III suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Dlood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; 
But peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And pleasure, leagued with pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 



LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly! but iheir friendship sure, 
When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success; 
And after view'd them, when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of distress; 
That saddening hour when bad men bother press: 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — 2 7 
In aught that tries the heartliow few withstand the proof ! 

LXVIT. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 

LXVIH. 

Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare; though homely, all they had : 
Such conduct bears philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, 
Till lie did greet white Achelous' tide, 
And from his further bank iEtolia's wolds espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west! 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene. — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest, 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



55 



LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 28 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
The native revels of the troop began; 
Each Palikar 2 9 his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan . 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee, 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
While thus hi concert they this lay half sung, half 
scream'd; 3o 



3l Tameourgi? Tambourgi ! ' thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! 



Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 

And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 



Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

5. 
Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; 
Shall win the young bride with her long-flowing hai 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

1 Drummer. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 32 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
He neither must know who would serve the vizier: 
Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw, 



Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 

Let the yellow-hair'd l Giaours 2 view his horse-tail 3 

with dread; 
When his Delhis* come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
How few shali escape from the Muscovite ranks! 



Selictar! 5 unsheathe then our chiefs scimitar: 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 33 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom! when on Pliyle's brow 3 * 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deedunmann'd. 

LXXY. 

In all, save form alone, how changed! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost liberty? 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage: 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mournful page. 



1 Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 

2 Infidels. 

} Horse-tails are the insignia of a Pacha. 

4 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 

5 Sword-bearer. 



56 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lxxvl 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
"Who would be free tbemselvcs must strike tbe blow? 
By their right arms tbe conquest must be wrought? 
Will Gaul or 31uscovite redress ye? no! 
True, they may lay your proud despoiiers low, 
But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Beceive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 35 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 36 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth— ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
But ere his sackcloth garb repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
Ob Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I 've seen such sight nor heard such song, 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill' d the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echoed back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still: 
Oh love ! young love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these redeem life's years of ill! 



LXXXIL 

But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betrav'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud? 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee most; 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; 
An hour may lay it in the dust; and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
Becal its virtues back, and vanquish time and fate? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 3 7 
Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now: 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 38 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
Where the grey stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh « Alas!» 

LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; 
Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. 



CLIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the muse's tales seem truly told. 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone: 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord- 
Preserves alike ils bounds and bouodless fame 
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bovv'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word; 3 9 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

XC. 
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below; 
Death in the front, destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
Recording fredom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof,rude stranger! spurns around. 

XCI. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; 
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore. 

XGII. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that 's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; 
He that is lonely hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side> 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 

XCIII. 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 



XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse ■with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please when none are left to love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come! 
Would he had ne'er return' d to find fresh cause to roam ! 

XCVI. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! 
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed! 
But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldsthave of mine, stern Death! thou hast; j 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

xcvir. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that peace disdains to seek? 
Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak : 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
Since time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO III. 



Afin que cette application vous format tic penser a autre chose, 
il n'y a en v^rite tie reniede que celui-la et le temj 

'7/6. 



LettreduRoide Prusse a d'Alcmbart, Se;:t. 



I. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! 
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither I know not; hut the hour s gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

n. 

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the slrain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In my youth's summer I did sing of one, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; 
Again 1 seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 

Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 



He, who grown aged in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 



VI. 

'T is to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought '. with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Alix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
And feeling still with thee in my orush'd feelings' dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly:— I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
I\ly springs of life were poison'd. 'T is too late! 
Yet am 1 changed; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. 

VIII. 

Something too much of this : — but now 't is past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold re-appears at last; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er heal; 
Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaffd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took, through many a scene. 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ! such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and nature's hand. 

XL 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 



GHiLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



59 



XII. 
But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with man ; with whom he held 
Little in common; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; 
Proud though in desolation; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 

XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends ; 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship,- they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For nature's pages, glass'd by]sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 

XV. 

But in man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, aud stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundiess air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impcdcd_soul would through his bosom eat. 

xvr. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 

With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; 

The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 

That all was over on this side the tomb, 

Had made despair a smilingness assume, 

Which, though 't were wild, — as on the pluuder'd 

wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — 

Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 
XVII. 
Stop! — for thy tread is on an empire's dust! 
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow: 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 

Thou first and last of fields! king-making victory? 



XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, 'transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In « pride of place »' here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters; — but is earth more free? 
Did nations combat to make One submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What! shall reviving thraldom again be 
The patch' d-up idol of enlighten'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the lion down, s*hall we 
Pay the wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye praise ! 

XX. 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, aud broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword 
Such as llarmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 3 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it?— No; 't was but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet, 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet : — 
Hut, hark!— that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! arm! it is— it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

XXHI. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 



6o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an Lour a«o 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white lips— « The foe! They come! 
they come !« 

XXVI. 
And wild and high the « Cameron's gathering » rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard too, have her Sax*n foes:— 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 

And Evan's,4Donald's 5 fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes 6 waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
low. 

XXVIII. 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 

Rider and horse,— friend, foe,— in one red burial blent ! 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
Theyreach'd no noblerbreast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard ! 



XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought tothose she could not bring.7 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of fame 
Slay for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn. 
The tree will wither long before it fall; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn batllements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral, 
The day drags through though storms keep outthe sun; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 

XXXI [I. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 

XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair, 

Vitality of poison, — a quick root 

Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 

As nothing did we die ; but life will suit 

Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit, 

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's* shore, 

All ashes to the taste; did man compute 

Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 

Such hours 'gainst years of life,— say, would he name 
three-score ? 

XXXV. 
The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: 
They are enough ; and if the tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
« Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day !» 

And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 



CIIILRE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



61 



XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest; and again 
On little ohjects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all things! hadst thou heen betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
And shake again the world, the thunderer of the scene! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou? 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, tiil thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for 3. time whate'er thou didst assert. 

XXXVII I. 
Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarch's necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eve ; — 
When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 
Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 
T is but a worthless world to win or lose; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who chuse. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 

throne, 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone: 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.9 



XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagion; conquerors and kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things, 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would un teach mankind the lust to shine or rule. 

XL1V. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Hound him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 



XLVL 



be 



Away with these ! true wisdom's world wil 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, 
And chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. 

XLVII. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below, 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 



62 



BYROJN'S WORKS. 



XLVIII. 

Beueath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud slate 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a iouger date. 
What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should have, 
But history's purchased page to call them great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 
But still their Hume was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolour'd Bhine beneath its ruin run. 



But thou, exulting and abounding river ! 

Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 

Through banks whose beauty would endure forever, 

Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 

Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 

With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 

Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 

Earth paved like heaven ; and to seem such to me 

Even now what wants thy stream? — that it should 
Lethe be. 

LI. 
A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks — 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray; 
But o"er the blacken' d memory's blighting dream 

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as:they seem. 

LIf. 
Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocuud birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe ; 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 

LIU. 
Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is iu vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 



LIV. 

And he had learn'd to love, — T know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. 

LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; anil, (hough unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour : 
i. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels ls 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Bhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 

And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 

Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strew r 'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me ! 

2. 
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, 

And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch, in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Bhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 

Though, long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 

But yet reject them not as such : 
For I have cherish'd them as dear, 

Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 

When thou hehold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer' d from my heart to thine ! 

4- 

The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round ; 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Bhine ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



63 



LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LV1F. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; 
For he was Freedom's champion,— one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons : he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. ' 2 

LVIII. 
Here Ehrenbreitstein,' 3 with her shatter'd wall, 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Bebounding idly on her strength did light; 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
But peace destroy'd what war could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united, 
Or lonely contemplation, thus might stray: 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
The mind is colour'd by thy every hue; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
'T is with the thankful glance of parting praise; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 

Lxr. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near 
them fall. 



LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show 

How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man 
below. 

LXIII. 
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ;— the Stygian coast 

Cnsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering 
ghost. '4 

LXIV. 
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-enlail'd corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 

Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days; 
'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by ablaze, 
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands, 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum,' 5 hath sirew'd her subject lands. 

LXYI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
dust.' 6 

lxvii. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
Tiie enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth ; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, '7 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 



6S 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVIII. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect, in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
Cut soon in me shall loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish' d than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 

All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 

Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 

Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 

In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 

Of our infection, till too late and long 

We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 

'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
strong. 

LXX. 
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er eternity, 

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Bhone, lS 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear ? 

LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities tortures : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXI1I. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
I look upon the peopled desert past 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel. to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being 
clinfr. 



LXX1V. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Beft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall 1 not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought? the spirit of each spot, 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
glow ? 

LXXVI. 
But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, 

The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LXXVII. 
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Bousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched: yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 

LXXV1II. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 

LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that 's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.'9 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



65 



LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But lie was phrenzied, — wherefore, who may know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find; 
But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, 
To that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers, 
Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown 
fears ? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; 
Y\ T hat marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 

LXXX1V. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish 'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years; none need despair: 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
ThatI with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 



LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and, drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill; 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

Lxxxvm. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of Heaven! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 
a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as Ave grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : from the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter' d in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XG. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 

In solitude, where we are least alone; 

A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 

And purifies from self: it is a tone, 

The soul and source of music, which makes known 

Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
,. Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 

Binding all things with beauty; — 't v/ould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, 20 and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! 

9 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xcu. 

The sky is changed '.—and such a change! Oh night, 2 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

XCIII. 

And this is in the night :— most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — t 
A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 't is black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Bhone cleaves his -way between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's hloom, and then departed ; 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 

XGV. 

Now, where the quick B.hone thus has cleft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high uest? 

XCVII. 
Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 



XCVIII. 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
Tlie march of our existence: and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much that may give us pause, if ponder' d fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; 
Thy trees take root in love ; the snows above 
The very glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 22 
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of love, who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 

Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then 
mocks. 

C. 
Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 

Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 

CI. 

All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
Cut light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, 
For 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity! 



GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CIV. 

'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings; 't was the ground 
Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness : 't is lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone 

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
throne. 

CV. 
Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes 2 '* 
Of names which unto you bequeatb'd a name; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder and the flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 

On man and man's research could deign do more than 
smile. 

CVI. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents : but his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 

Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer : 
The lord of irony,— that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

GVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just, 

CIX. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 



CX. 

Italia! too,— Italia! looking on thee, 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 

CXI. 

Thus far I have proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be,— and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought; 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me; 

I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 

To its idolatries a patient knee, — 

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 

In worship of an echo; in the crowd 

They could not deem me one of such; I stood 

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still 

could, 
Had I not filed 2 * my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
CXIV. 
I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes; I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things,— hopes which will not 

deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; 25 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 

cxv. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys,— to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 
Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, 't were the same — 
I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment,— all would be in vain, — 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. 

cxvnr. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee,— but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou rnightst have been to me ! 



CANTO IV. 



Visto bo Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 
Quel monte che divide, e quel cbe serra 
Italia, e un mare e 1' altro cbe la bagna. 

Ariosto, Sa'irah 



JOHN CAM HOEHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 
etc. etc. etc. 



My deak Hobhotjse, 
After an interval of eight years between the composi- 
tion of the first and last cantos of Chi'de Harold, the 
conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the 
public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not extra- 
ordinary that I should recur to one still older and 
better,— to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for 
the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than 
— though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe 
Harold, for any public favour reflected through the 
poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, 
and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over 
my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prospe- 
rity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty 
in peril— to a friend often tried and never found 
wanting; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in de- 



dicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded 
state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
wish to do honour to myself by the record of many 
years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of 
steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours 
to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sin- 
cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend- 
ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to 
relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been 
so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as 
to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to 
commemorate your good qualities, or rather the ad- 
vantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
Even the recurrence of the dale of this letter, the an- 
niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past 
existence, but which cannot poison my future, while I 
retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own 
faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- 
lection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this 
my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, 
such as few men have experienced, and no one could 
experience without thinking better of his species and 
of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at va- 
rious periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and 
fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : and what 
Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, 
Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem 
also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me 
from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable 
vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency 
on a composition which in some degree connects me 
with the spot where it was produced, and the objects 
it would fain describe; and however unworthy it may 
be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, 
however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and 
immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for 
what is venerable, and a feeling for what is glorious, it 
has been to me a source cf pleasure in the production, 
and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly 
suspected that events could have left me for imaginary 
objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated 
from the author speaking in his own person. The fact 
is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which 
every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the 
Chinese in Goldsmith's « Citizen of the World, » whom 
nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain 
that I asserted, and imagined, that 1 had drawn a dis- 
tinction between the author and the pilgrim; and the 
very anxiety to preserve this difference, aud disappoint- 
ment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts 
in the composition, that I determined to abandon it 
altogether — and have done so. The opinions which have 
been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a 
matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, 
and not on the writer; and the author, who has no re- 
sourcesin his own mind beyond the reputation, transient 
or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, 
deserves the fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



% 



of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
I soon found hardly sufficient for the iahyrinth of 
external objects and the consequent reflections ; and for 
the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, 
lam indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily 
limited to the elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
dissimilar: and requires an attention and impartiality 
which would induce us, — though perhaps no inatten- 
tive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs 
of the people amongst whom we have recently abode, — 
to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more 
narrowly examine our iuformation. The state of lite- 
rary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to 
have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impar- 
tially between them is next to impossible. It may be 
enough then, at least for my purpose, to quote from 
their own beautiful language— « .Mi pare clie in un 
paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed 
insieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte ie vie diverse si possono 
tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non 
ha perduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere 
la prima. » Italy has great names still — Canova, Monti, 
Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, 
Albrizzi, Mezzofanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, 
will secure to the present generation an honourable 
place in most of the departments of art, science, and 
belles-lettres; and in some the very highest ; — Europe 
— the world — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that h La 
pianla uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qualun- 
que altra terra — e que gli stessi atroci delitli che vi si 
commettono ne sono una prova.» Without subscribing 
to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doc- 
trine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect 
more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must 
be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not 
struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, 
or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, 
the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their 
conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of 
beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated 
revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair 
of ages, their still unquenched « longing after immor- 
tality,)) — the immortality of independence. And when 
we, ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard 
the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, « Roma ! 
Roma! Roma! Roma non e piu come era prima, » it 
was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with 
the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled 
from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St 
Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, 
and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself 
have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of 
our history. For me, 

• Xon movero tuai corda 

Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda.- 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it be- 
comes ascertained that England has acquired something 
more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas 
Corpus ; it is enough for them to lock at home. For 
what they have done abroad, and especially in the 

I 



I South, « verily tliev will have their reward," and at no 
j very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse,a safe and agreeable 

' return to that country whose real •welfare can be dearer 

j to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in 

its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly I 

am ever 

Your obliged 

And affectionate friend, 

BYRON. 
Venice, January 2, 181 8. 



I. 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 1 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned onherhundred isles! 

II. 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 2 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers: 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 



In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 3 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but nature doth not die : 
>"or yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
Wiih the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 



7° 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from hope, the last from vacancy; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than cur fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse. 

vir. 

I saw or dream'd of such, but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening fantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 

I 've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country -with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was 1 born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea ? 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it -well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied chuse a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations iu their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull oblivion bar 



My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour'd by the nations— let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
« Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.»4 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted — they have torn me, — and I bleed: 

I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
a seed. 

XI. 
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 5 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an emperor sued. 
And monarchs gazed and envied, in the hour 

When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 



XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 6 
An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt; 
O for one hour of blind old Dandolo \l 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

XIII. 

Before St Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 8 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory,— a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The « Planter of the Lion,»9 which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Voucli it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead doges are declined to dust; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Bedemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 11 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands— his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 

XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the ocean queen should not 
Abandon ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



xvm. 

I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of tho heart, 
Fusing like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Raclcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's arf, 12 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, aud a show. 

XIX. 
I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought: 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught. 
There are some feelings time can not benumb, 
Xor torture shake, or mine would nowbe cold and dumb. 

XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow 13 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree; — the mind may grow the same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute 
The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy 'd, 
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event 
Ends: — some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent, 
Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of grief subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music, — summer's eve— or spring, 
A flower — the wind— the ocean— which shall wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
bound: 



XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesigu'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
The cold— the changed — perchance the dead — anew, 
The mourn'd, the lov'd, the lost— too many ! yet how few ' 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all art yields, and nature can decree; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertilitv; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm -which cannot be defaced. 

XXVII. 
The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the'sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
belted to one vast Iris of the west, 
Where the day joins the past eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air— an island of the blest ! 

XXVIII. 
A single star is at her side, aud reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still 1 4 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, aud remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
As day and night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Vhich streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps awav, 
The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone— and all is grey. 



7 2 



EYRON'S WORKS. 



xxx. 

There is a tomb in Arqua;— rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes; 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 15 
'With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 16 
The mountain-village where his latter clays 
Went down the vale of years; and 't is their pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

XXXHI. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'T is solitude should teach us how to die ! 
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive: 

XXXIY. 

Or, it may be, with demons, 1 ? who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. 



XXXVI. 

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion— in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee! if in another station born, 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: 

XXXVIII. 

Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider stye: 
He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow '8 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 't was his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine! though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The bards of hell and chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The Southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the north, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust'9 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves, 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 20 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; 
Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves, 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below 21 
Whate'er it strikes;— yon head is doubly sacred now. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



73 



XLII. 

It3lia! oh Italia! thou wlio hast 22 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough 'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back ■who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress: 

XLIII. 

Then migbtst thou more appal; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored % 

For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 23 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
^jina lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight : 

XLV. 

For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear' d 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad -wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country s ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 2 4 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet, Italy! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; 
Mother of arts ! as once of arms, thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



XLVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern luxury of commerce born, 
And buried learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills 25 
The air around with beauty; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and iu that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when nature's self would fail; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : 



We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where pedantry gulls folly — we have eyes; 

Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 
Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 

Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an 
urn? 

LII. 
Glowing, and circumfused in r-peechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us; — let it go! 
We can recal such visions, and create, 
From what has been or might be, thiugs which grow 

Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

Lin. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
Let these describe the undescribable: 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2 7 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Though there -were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
Aogelo's, Altieri's bones, 2f > and his, 
The starry Galileo, with his woes; 
Here Machiavelli's earth relurn'd to whence it rose. 2 9 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 

Might furnish forth creation: — Italy! 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 

rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our commou clay 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, 3 ° 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; ■*■ 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages; and the crown 32 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 

His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine 
own. 

LVI II. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 33 
His dust, — and lies it not her great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 

Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. 



LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 3 4 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes! the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Tlian ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, 
Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, 
Than art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
Where courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter' d o'er, 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! 35 
None felt stern nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! 

LXIV. 

The earth to them was as a rolling bark 

Which bore them to eternity; they saw 

The ocean round, but had no time to mark 

The motions of their vessel; nature's law, 

In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 

Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 

Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 

From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds 

Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
words. 

LXV. 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Bent by no ravage save the gentle plough; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 

Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXVI. 

But thou,CIitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 36 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, 
A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters! 

LXVI I. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
tales. 

LXVIII. 
Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow,'t is his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With nature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; 
The fall of waters! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald !— how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent, 
With his fierce footsteps, yield m chasms a fearful vent 

LXXf. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and show* 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,. 
With many windings, through the vale: — lookback! 
Lo! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract, 3 ? 



LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 38 
Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXUI. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 

The infant Alps, which — had I not before 

Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 

Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 

The thundering lauwine 3 9 — might be worshipp'd 

more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
Alhos, Olympus, iEtna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 4° 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recals the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory; and, though time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, witli the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to chuse, I cannot now restore 
Its health; but what rt then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 



7 6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXV1II. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 

The orphans of tlie heart must turn to thee, 

Lone mother of dead empires! and control 

In their shut breasts their petty misery. 

What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see 

The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 

O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye 

Whose agonies are evils of a day ! — • 

A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless, ia her voiceless woe; 
An empty urn within her wither' d hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 4' 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hiU'd city's pride; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, « here was, or is,» where all is doubly night? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
All round us; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands and cry « Eureka !» it is clear- 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ?4 2 and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass. 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, forTully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 

LXXXI II. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, 43 
Triumphant Sylla! thou who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 



LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was almighty hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms,and, happier, yield his breath. 

LXXXVf. 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.44 
And show'd not fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 4* 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? 

LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 46 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest : — mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
And thy limbs black with lightning— dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost;— but all thy foster^babes are dead — 
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
And fought and conquer'd, and thesame coursesteer'd, 
At apish distance; but as yet none have, 
Nor could the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



77 



XC. 
The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,47 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold ; 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, 

xcr. 

And came — and saw — and conquer'd! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness— vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition— still he aim'd — 
At what? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd ? 

XCII. 
And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread ; for this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
An universal deluge which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow! — Renew thy rainbow, God! 

XCITI. 
What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,4 8 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weujh'd in custom's falsest scale; 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 

And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
much light. 

XCIV. 
And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
R-otting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Requeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and, rather than be free, 
Rleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 

Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

XCV. 
I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker— but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known — and daily, hourly seen, — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow l d, 
The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 



XGVI. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? 
Or must such minds be uourish'd in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled 
On infant Washington? Has earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 

XCVII. 
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And dreadful have her Saturnalia been 
To freedom's cause, in every age and clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVII1. 
Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind: 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,f9 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown : — 
What was this tower of strength? within its cave 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave. 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she? Was she not 
So honour'd — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been, 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs? for such the affections 
are. 



7 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



GIL 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; 5 ° yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

cm. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver grey 
On her long tresses, which might yet recal, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would conjecture stray? 

Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride ! 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind: 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind ; 

CV. 

And from the planks far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs? — let me not number mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight: — temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty falls. 5 ' 



CVI 1 1. 
There is the moral of all human tales; 5z 
'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First freedom, and then glory— when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption,— barbarism at last. 
And history, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page,— 't is better written here, 
Where gorgeous tyranny had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 

Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask— Away with words I 
draw near, 

CIX. 
Admire, exult — despise— laugh, weep,— for here 
There is such matter for all feeling: — man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of glory's gew-gaws shining in the van, 
Tiil the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! 

Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to 
build ? 

CX. 
Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Ca?sar's brow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus', or Trajan's? No— 't is that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 

To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 53 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
But yielded back his conquests: — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 5 * 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here? Yes : and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and b\< od: 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd; 
But long before had freedom's face been veil'd, 
And anarchy assumed her attributes; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



79 



CXIV. 
Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi! last of Romans! 5 5 While the tree 
Of freedom's wither' d trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — - 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas! too brief. 

cxv. 

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 56 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thioe ideal breast; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
W T ilh thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margins now no more erase 
Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble; bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern , flowers, and ivy creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled; the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; 
Flowers, fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. 

CXVIII. 
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
The purple midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
W T ith her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befel? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamour'd goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy love — the earliest oracle! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Rlend a celestial with a human heart; 
And love, which dies, as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? 



cxx. 

Alas! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI. 

O love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — 
wrung — and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation : — where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? 
In him alone. Can nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men — 
The unreach'd paradise of our despair, 
Which o'erinforms the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it -would bloom again ? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 't is youth's frenzy — but the cure 

Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds 

Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 

Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 

Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds 

The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 

Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; 

The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 

Seems ever near the prize. — wealthiest when most un- 
done. 

CXX1V. 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick— sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curs'd. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice— 't is the same, 
Each idle— and all ill— and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 

And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

cxxv. 

Few— none— find what they love or could have loved, 
Though accideut, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies, — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
And circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns hope to dust, — the dust we all have 
trod. 



So 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cxxvr. 

Our life is a false nature— 't is not in 
The harmony cf things,— this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly 5 7 — 't is a base 

Abandonment of reason to resign 

Our right of thought — our last and only place 

Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 

Though from our birth the faculty divine 

Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 

And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 

Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 

The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 
Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would built up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands; the moon-beams shine 
As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

CXXX. 

Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
Illy hands, and eves, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years— though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever spen me too elate, 
Hear me not : but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? 



CXXXH. 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Lost the unbalanced scale, great Nemesises 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— >• 
Thou, who didst call the furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 
Had it but been from hands less dear— in this 
Thy former realm, 1 call thee from the dust! 

Dost thou not hear my heart! — Awake! thou shalt, and 
must. 

CXXXIII. 
It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
To thee I do devote it— thou shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 
Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd: let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak, 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 

cxxxv. 

That curse shall be forgiveness — Have I not— 
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!^ 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hope sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 1 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy, 
Have I not seen what human things could do? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

1 The following stanza was written as the i36th, but afterwards 
suppressed: — 

If to forgive be heaping coals of fire. 
As God hath spoken, on the heads of foes, 
Mine should be a volcano, and rise higher 
Than o'er the Titans crush'd Olympus rose, 
Or Athos soars, or llazing ^Etna roars. 
True, they who stung were creeping things— but what 
Than serpents' teeth inflicts with deadlier throes? 
The lion may be goaded by the gnat : 
Who sucks the sluniberer's blood? the eagle?— no! the bat. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CXXXVJI. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain, 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and time, and breathe when I expire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lvre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

cxxxvnr. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight h,our 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter' d by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore ! but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not! 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 



CXL. 

I see before me the gladiator lie : 5 9 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 

CXLT. 
He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
Tliere was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Boman holiday — 6o 
All this rush'd with his blood— Shall he expire, 

And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 

CXLTI. 

But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 
Here, where the Boman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 6 ' 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint ravs 
On the arena void — seats crush'd— walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 



CXLT1I. 
A ruin— yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd • 
It will not bear the brightness of the day 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 
But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
lne garland-forest, which the grev walls wear 
Like laurels on the bald first CaesaVs head 62 ' 
^hen the light shines serene but doth not' glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead • 
Heroes have trod this spot- 1 is on their dust ye tread. 
CXLV. 
« While stands the Coliseum, Borne shall stand 63 
T\ hen falls the Coliseum, Borne shall fall ■ 
And when Borne falls-the world.» From our ow 

land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wa j| 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Borne and her ruin past redemption's skill, 
The world the same wide den-of thieves, or what ye will. 
CXLVI. 
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime- 
Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus— spared and blest by time ; 6 4 
Locking tranquillity, while falls or nods" 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way throngh thorns to ashes-glorious dome < 
Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods 
Shiver upon thee— sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety— Pantheon !— pride of Rome! 

CXLVH. 

Belie of nobler days, and noblest arts; 
Despoii'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts— 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Borne for the sake of ages, glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 

Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around 
them close. 65 

CXLVIH. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 66 
What do T gaze on? Nothing: Look again! 

Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight 

Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 

It is not so ; I see them full and plain— 

An old man, and a female young and fair, 

Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 

The blood is nectar.— but what doth she there, 

With her unmanlled neck, and bosom white and bare? 

1 1 



HYRON'S WOliKS. 



CXLIX. 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves— 
What may the fruit be yet? I know not— Gain was Eve's. 

CL. 
But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift :— it is her sire, 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river:— from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
no such tide. 

CLT. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds:— Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CHI. 

Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd on high, 6 7 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and, for his vain earth 
His shrunken ashes raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth '. 

CLIII. 

But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 68 
To which Diana's marvel was a eel! — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyJBiia and the jackall in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
lis sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd; 

CL1V. 
But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures in his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled 
Fn this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 



CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
Mis Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou movest— but increasing with the advance, 

Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 

Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 

Yastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — 

All musical in its immensities : 

Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 

The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 

In air with earth's chief structures, though their frame 

Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 
claim. 

CLVII. 
Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
Tiiat ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
Jn mighty graduations, part by part, 

The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLV1H. 

Not by its fault — but thine : our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
Jhat what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this 
Outshining and overwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 
Defies at first our nature's littleness, 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 
Then pause, and be enlightened ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, cr the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 

CLX. 
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending: — vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepeniug of the dragon's grasp, 
The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chaiu 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles ga s p on gasp. 



CPIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



S3 



CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring how, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The sun in human limhs arrayed, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the deity. 

CLxu. 

Rut in his delicate form — a dream of love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision— are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Star-like, around, until they gather'd to a god! 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array' d. 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human bands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor bath it. caught 

A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
't was wrought. 

CLXIV. 
But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing: if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let that pass— r 

His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 

That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 

And spreads the dim and universal pall 

Through which all things grow phantoms; and the 

cloud 
Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd, 
Till glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVf. 

And send us prying into the abyss, 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence; and io dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: 
It is enough in sootli that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart— the heart whose sweat was 
gore. 



GLXVU. 
Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 

ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVHT. 
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth iu safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed! 
The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : iu the dust 
The fair-hair d daughter of the isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 

Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 't was but a meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 
Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the fnlse oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiestsovereigus, 6 9andhath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 

Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stprn moment tear! 
From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee 
best. 



8, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXxm. 

Lo, Nemi!7° navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind, which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake : 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLXXIV. 
And, near, Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
« Arms and the man,» whose re-ascending star 
Rose o'er an empire; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabine farm was till'd — the weary bard's delight. 7 ' 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our fi'iend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd 

CLXXVI. 
Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As it there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXVII. 
Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVI II. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods^ 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 



CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Mau marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore.- — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unkneli'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

CLXXXTII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving;— bouudless, endless, and sublime— 
The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



85 



CLXXXV. 

My task is done— my song hath ceased— my theme 
Has died into an echo; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp— and what is writ, is writ,— 
Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit — 
Less palpably before me— and the glow 
IThich in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 

GLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger, — yet — farewell ! 
Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoou, and scallop-shell; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
: such there were — with you, the moral of his strain. 



NOTES. 



CANTO I. 

Note i. Stanza i. 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. 
The little village of Castri stands partly on the site 
of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from 
Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and 
from the rock : « One,» said the guide, « of a king who 
broke his neck hunting.^ His Majesty had certainly 
chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, 
of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and 
now a cow-house. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- 
tery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and ap- 
parently leading to the interior of the mountain: pro- 
bably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
From this part descend the fountain and the « Dews of 
Castalie.» 

Note 2. Stanza xx. 
And rest ye at u our Lady's house of woe.. 
The convent of «Our Lady of Punishment,» Nossa 
Senora tie Pena, * on the summit of the rock. Below, 
at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St Ho- 
norius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 

Note 3. Stanza xxi. 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. 
It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 

1 Since the publication of this poem I hare been informed of tli 
misapprehension of the term Nbssa Senora de Pena. It was owing 
to the want of the tilde, or mark orer the n, which alters the sig- 
nification of the word: with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, 
Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter 
the passage, as, though the common acceptation affixed to it is 
« our Lady of the Rock,» I may well assume the other sense, from 
the severities practised there. 



were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
men, but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and, 
so far from redress being obtained, we were requested 
not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, 
when the streets were not more empty than they gene- 
rally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in 
a carriage with a friend; had we not fortunately been 
armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have 
adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime of 
assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily 
and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever 
punished! 

Note 4- Stanza xxiv. 
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 
The convention of Cintra was signed in the palace 
of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord 
Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, 
indeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed the 
character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
predecessors. 

Note 5. Stanza xxix. 
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 
The extent of Mafra is prodigious; it contains a pa- 
lace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs 
are the most beautiful f ever beheld in point of deco- 
ration : we did not hear them, but were told that their 
tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is 
termed the Escurial of Portugal. 

Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 
As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
tbem. That they are since improved, at least in cou- 
rage, is evident. 

Note 7. Stanza xxxv. 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy nioonta n streams with Gothic gore ? 
Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of 
the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 
some centuries, completed their struggle by the con- 
quest of Grenada. 

Note 8. Stanza xlviii. 
Xo'. as he speeds, he chaunts: — « Viva el Rey!» 
«Viva el Rey Fernando !» — Long live King Ferdi- 
nand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
songs : they are chiefly in dispraise of the old King 
Charles, the Oueen, and the Prince of Peace. I have 
heard many of them; some of the airs are beautiful. 
Godoy, the Principe de In Paz, was born at Uadajoz, 
on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the 
ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted 
the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of 
Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards 
universally impute the ruin of their country. 

Note 9. Stanza 1. 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 
The red cockade, with « Fernando Sep timo» in the 
centre. 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 10. Stanza li. 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. 
All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- 
midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 
Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through 
which I passed in my way to Seville. 

Note ii. Stanza lvi. 

Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall. 

Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 

When the author was at Seville she walked daily on the 

Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command 

of the Junta. 

Note 12. Stanza lviii. 

The seal love's dimpling finger hath impressed 

Denotes how soft that thin that bears his touch. 

uSigilla in mento impressa amoris digitulo 

Vestigio demonstrant inollitudinem.» — Auu. Gel. 

Note 1 3. Stanza lx. 
Oh, thou Parnassus! 
These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the 
foot of Parnassus, now called Aix/.jpu — Liakura. 

Note 14. Stanza Ixv. 
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. 
Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 

Note i5. Stanza Ixx. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why? 

This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best 

situation for asking and answering such a question ; not 

as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the capital of Bneotia, 

where the first riddle was propounded and solved. 

Note 16. Stanza lxxxii. 

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 

« Medio de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.* — Luc. 

Note 17. Stanza Ixxxv. 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
Governor of Cadiz. 

Note 18. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
u War even to the knife!" 
« War to the knife ;» Palafox's answer to the French 
General at the siege of Saragoza. 

Note 19. Stnnza xci. 
And thou, rny friend ! etc. 
The honourable I*, W** of the Guards, who died of 
a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the 
better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 

In the short space of one month I have lost her who 
gave me being, and most of those who had made that 
being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction : 

« Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had till'd her horn." 
I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Col- 
lege, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise 
of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment 
of greater honours, against the ablest candidates, than 
those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have 
sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it 
was acquired, while his softer qualities live in the recol- 
lection of friends who loved him too well to envy his 
superiority. 



CANTO II. 



Note 1. Stanza i. 

—despite of war and wasting fire— 

Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 

of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 

Note 2. Stanza i. 

But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow. 

We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which 
the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are 
beheld; the reflections suggested by such objects are 
too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the 
littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, 
of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his 
country, appear more conspicuous than in the record 
of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now 
is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, 
of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition 
of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is 
now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual 
disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
British nobility and gentry. « The wild foxes, the owls, 
and serpents in the ruins of Babylon, » were surely less 
degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the 
plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have 
only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the 
bravest ; but how are the mighty fallen, when two 
painters contest the privilege of plundering the Par- 
thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
each succeeding firman! Sylla could but punish, Philip 
subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained for 
the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to 
render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire, 
during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, 
and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of 
regard: it changed its worshippers; but still it was a 
place of worship thrice sacred to devotion: its violation 
is a triple sacrilege. But 

u Man, vain man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep.n 

Note 3. Stanza v. 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. 
Tt was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
their dead ; the greater Ajax in particular was interred 
entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their 
decease, and he was indeed neglected who had not an- 
nual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his 
memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc., 
and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as 
his life was infamous. 

Note 4- Stanza x. 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne. 
The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
columns entirely of marble yet survive: originally there 
were i5o. These columns, however, are by many sup- 
posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 
Note 5. Stanza xi. 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 
The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



8' 



Note 6. Stanza xii. 
To rive What Goih, and Turk, and lime bath spared. 
At this moment (January 3, 1809), besides what has 
been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vesseJ is 
in the Piraeus to receive every portable relic. Thus, as I 
heard a young Greek observe, in common with many of 
his countrymen — for, lost as they are, they yet feel on 
this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast of having 
ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, 
named Lusieri, is the agent of devastation; and, like the 
Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same 
profession, he has proved the able instrument of plun- 
der. Between this artist and the French consul Fauvel. 
-who wishes to rescue the remains for his own govern- 
ment, there is now a violent dispute concerning a car 
employed in their conveyance, the wheel of which — I 
wisii they were both broken upon it — has been locked 
up by the consul, and Lusieri has laid his complaint 
before the Waywode. Lord Elgin has been extremely 
happy in his choice of Signor Lusieri. During a re- 
sidence of ten years in Athens, he never had the curio- 
sity to proceed as far as Suuium, 1 till he accompanied 
us in our second excursion. However, his works, as far 
as they go, are most beautiful : but they are almost all 
unfinished. While he and his patrons confine them- 
selves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, sketching 
columns, and cheapening gems, their little absurdities 
are as harmless as insect or fox-hunting, maiden- 
speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such pastime; 
but when they carry away three or four ship-loads of 
the most valuable and massy relics that time and bar- 
barism have left to the most injured and most cele- 
brated of cities; when they destroy, in a vain attempt 
to tear down, those works which have been the admi- 
ration of ages, 1 know no motive which can excuse, 
no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this 
dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the crimes 
laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plundered 
Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The 
most unblushing impudence could hardly go further 
than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of 

1 Xow Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and 
Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To 
the antiquaryand artist sixteen columnsare an inexhaustiblesouroe 
of observation and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of 
some of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the travel- 
ler will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over « Isles thai 
crown thesEyean deep;' but for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an 
additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas 
and Plato are forgotten in ihe recollection of Falconer and Campbell : 
k Here in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep.™ 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In 
two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the 
view from either side, by land, was less sinking than the approach 
from the isles. In our second land excursion, we had a narrow 
escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the cavernsbeneath. 
We were told afterwards, by one of their prisoners subsequently 
ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking us by the ap- 
pearance of my two Albanians: conjecturing very sagaciously, but 
falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, 
they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too 
small to have opposed any effectual resistance. 

Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates ; there 
u The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc.) 
But there nature, wilh the aid of art, has done that for herself.— 
I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist ; 
and hope to renew my acquaintance wilh this and many other Le- 
vantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances. 



1 the Acropolis; while the wanton and useless deface- 
ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one 
compartment of the temple, will never permit that 
name to be pronounced, by an observer, without exe- 
cration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival; 
but I have some early prepossessions in favour of Greece, 
and do not think the honour of England advanced by 
plunder, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he has 
done less : but some others, more or less noble, yet 
« all honourable men,» have done best, because, after 
a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the 
Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done 
nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, 
which almost ended in blood-shed! Lord E.'s « prig,» — 
see Jonathan Wylde for the definition of « priggism,» — 
quarrelled with another, Gropius > byname (a very good I 
name too for his business), and muttered something j 
about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the i 
poor Prussian: this was stated at table to Gropius, who ( 
laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The 
rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have j 
reason to remember their squabble, for thev wanted to 
make me their arbitrator. 

Note 7. Stanza xii. 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. 
Vet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my 
friend Dr Clarke, whose name requires no comment with 
the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to 
my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very 
obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines : 
« When the last of the metopes was taken from the 
Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- 
structure with one of the triglvphs was thrown down 
by ihe workmen whom Lord Elgin employed; the Disdar, 
who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his 
pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplicat- 
ing tone of voice, said to Lusieri, T£A©s ! — I was present. » 
The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present 
Disdar. 

Note 8. Stanza xiv. 
Where was thine aegis, Pallas', that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and havoc on their way? 
According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
ened Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that 
the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- 
tish peer. — See Chandler. 

Note 9. Stanza xviii. 

the netted canopv. 

The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from fall- 
ing on deck during action. 

1 This Sr Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose 
of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorry to say, that he has, 
through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been 
treading at a humble distance in the steps of Sr Lusieri. A shipful 
of his trophies was detained, and, I believe, confiscated at Constantin- 
ople in 1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that * this 
wasnot in his bond ;» lhathe was employed solely asapainter, and 
that his noble patron disavows all connexion with him, except as an 
artist. If the error in the first and second edition of this poem has 
given the noble Lord a moment's pain, I am very sorry for it ; Sr 
Gropius has assumed for years the name of his agent ; and, though 
I cannot much condemn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, 
lam happy in being one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have 
as much pleasure in contradicting this as I felt regret instating it. 

. I 



88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 10. Stanza xxix. 
But nol in silence pass Calypso's isles. 
Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 
Note i J. Stanza xxxviii. 
Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou ru{j(jed nurse of savage men ! 
Albania comprises part of Macedonia, lllyria, Chaonia, 
and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alexan- 
der; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alexander) 
is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the thirty- 
eighth stanza. I do not know whether lam correct in 
making Scanderbeg the countryman of Alexander, who 
was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr Gibbon terms him 
so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in speaking of his exploits. 
Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country « within 
sight of Italy is less known than the interior of Ame- 
rica. « Circumstances, of little consequence to men- 
tion, led Mr Hobhouse and myself into that country 
before we visited any other part of the Ottoman domi- 
nions , and with the exception of Major Leake, then 
officially resident at Joanuina, no other Englishmen 
have ever advanced beyond the capital into the interior, 
as that gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha 
was at that time (October, 1S09) carrying on war against 
Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Herat, a strong 
fortress which he was then besieging: on our arrival at 
Joanuina we were invited to Tcpaleni, his Highness's 
birth-place, and favourite Serai, only one day's distance 
from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier had made it his 
head-quarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we accordingly fol- 
lowed ; but though furnished with every accommoda- 
tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we 
were nine days (on accouut of the rains) in accomplish- 
ing a journey which, on our return, barely occupied four. 
On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and 
Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size , 
and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery 
in the vicinity of Zitza aud Delvinachi, the frontier vil- 
lage of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to 
descant, because this will be done so much better by 
my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably 
precede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow 
as I would to anticipate him. But some few observa- 
tions are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by their 
resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, 
figure, and manner of living. Their very mountains 
seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, 
though white; the spare, active form; their dialect, 
Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all carried 
me back to Morveu. No nation are so detested and 
dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese : the Greeks 
hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as Mos- 
lems; and in fact they are a mixture of both, and some- 
times neither. Their habits are predatory : all are 
armed; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montene- 
grins, Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous; the 
others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in cha- 
racter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak 
favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a 
Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of 
Turkey which came within my observation; and more 
faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely 
to be found. The Inlidel was named Basilius, the Mos- 



lem, Dervish Tahiri; the former a man of middle age, 
and the latter about my own. Basili was strictly 
charged by Ali Pacha in person to attend us; and Der- 
vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the 
forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and on- 
ward to Messaluughi iu iEtolia. There I took him into 
my own service, and never had occasion to repent it till 
the moment of my departure. 

When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr 
II. for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the 
Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away 
my physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I 
was not cured within a given time. To this consola- 
tory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a reso- 
lute refusal of Dr Bomanelli's prescriptions, I attributed 
my recovery. I had left my last remaining English 
servant at Athens; my dragoman was as ill as myself, 
aud my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention 
which would have done honour to civilization. 

They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, 
Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was al- 
ways squabbling with the husbands of Athens; inso- 
much that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit 
of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his 
havingtaken a woman from the bath — whom he had law- 
fully bought however — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. 

liasili also was extremely gallant amongst ins own 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- 
men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most hetero- 
dox manner. Yet he never passed a church without 
crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in 
entering St Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once 
been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with 
him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably an- 
swered, « our church is holy, our priests are thieves;» 
and then he crossed himself as usual, aud boxed the 
ears of the first «papas» who refused to assi-t in any 
required operation, as was always found to be neces- 
sary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia 
liashi of his village. Indeed a more abandoned race 
of miscreants cannot exist than the lower orders of the 
Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my 
Albauians were summoned to receive their pay. Basili 
took his with an awkward show of regret at my in- 
tended departure, and marched away to his quarters 
with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for 
some time he was not to be found; at last he entered, 
just as Signer Logotheli, father to the ci-devant Anglo- 
consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- 
quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, 
but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping 
his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out 
of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to 
the hour of my embarkation, he continued his lamen- 
tations, and all our efforts to console him only pro- 
duced this answer, « M' oupstV£l,» « He leaves me.» Sig- 
nor Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing 
less than the loss of a para, » melted ; the padre of the 
convent, my attendants, my visitors — and I verily be- 
lieve that even « Sterne's foolish fat scullion» would 
have left her « fish-kettle» to sympathize with the un- 
affected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 

1 Para, about tbe fourth of a farthingh. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



89 



For my own part, when I remembered that, a short 
time before my departure from England, a noble and 
most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- 
ing leave of me, because he had to attend a relation 
« to a milliner's, » I felt no less surprised than humi- 
liated by the present occurrence and the past recollec- 
tion. 

That Dervish would leave me with some regret was 
to be expected : when master and man have been 
scrambliug over the mountains of a dozen provinces to- 
gether, they are unwilling to separate ; but his present 
feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved 
my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost 
feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on 
our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my ser- 
vice gave him a push in some dispute about the bag- 
gage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow; he spoke 
not, but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. 
Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to ex- 
plain away the affront, which produced the following 
answer: — «I have been a robber, I am a soldier; no 
captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I have eaten 
your bread ; but by that bread! (a usual oath) had it 
been otherwise, I would have stabbed ihe dog your ser- 
vant, and gone to the mountains. » So the affair ended, 
but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave 
the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- 
tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that 
as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. 
It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull 
round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian 
party had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the culti- 
vators of the earth in the provinces, who have also that 
appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of 
countenance; and the most beautiful women I ever be- 
held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the 
road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
atrical, but this strut is probably the effect of the ca- 
pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cou- 
rage in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though 
they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw 
a good Arnaout horseman: my own preferred the En- 
glish saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 

Note 1 2. Stanza xxxix. 

and pass'd the barren spot 

Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. 

Ithaca. 

Note 1 3. Stanza xl. 

Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 

Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 

battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 

less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras; here the 

author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 

Note 14. Stanza xli. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory 
(the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown her- 
self. 



Note i5. Stanza xlv. 

many a Roman chief and Asian king. 

It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of 
Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

Note 16. Stanza xlv. 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose! 
Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- 
drome survives in a few fragments. 

Note 17. Stanza xlvii. 

Acherusia's lake. 

According to Pouqueville, the Lake of Yanina; but 
Pouqueville is always out. 

Note 18. Stanza xlvii. 
To greet Albania's chief. 
The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man 
there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. 

Note 19. Stanza xlvii. 
• Yet here and there some daring mountain band 

Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
castle of Suli, withstood 3o,ooo Albanians for eighteen 
years: the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this 
contest there were several acts performed not unworthy 
of the better days of Greece. 

Note 20. Stanza xlviii. 
Monastic Zitza, etc. 
The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- 
ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa- 
cini! ick. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Ache- 
ron) flows, and, not far from Zitza, forms a fine cataract. 
The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the 
approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and 
vEtolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, 
in Attica, even Cape Colonnaand Port Raphti, are very 
inferior; as also every scene in Ionia or the Troad: I 
am almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- 
nople; but, from the different features of the last, a 
comparison can hardly be made. 

Note 21. Stanza xlix. 
Here dwells the caloyer. 
The Greek monks are so called. 

Note 22. Stanza li. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. 
The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- 
canic. 

Note 23. Stanza li. 

behold black Acheron ! 

Now called Kalamas. 

Note 24. Stanza Hi. 

in his white capote — 

Albanese cloak. 

Note 2o. Stanza lv. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. 

Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

Note 26. Stanza lv. 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by. 
The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
it ; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as 



9° 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



■wide as the Thames at Westminster; at least in the 
opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr Hob- 
house. In the summer it must be much narrower. It 
certainly is the finest river in the Levant: neither Ache- 
loiis, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, ap- 
proached it in breadth or beauty. 

Note 27. Stanza Ixvi. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 
Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 

Note 28. Stanza lxxi. 
the red wine circling fast. 

The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
and indeed very few of the others. 

Note 29. Stanza lxxi. 

Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 

Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 

from Ualuckpi, a general name for a soldier amongst 

the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means 

properly «a lad.» 

Note 3o. Stanza Ixxii. 

While thus in concert, etc. 
As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
the lllyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral 
songs, which are generally chaunted in dancing by men 
or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely 
a kind of chorus, without meaning, like some in our 
own and all other languages. 

Bo, Ho, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 

Naciarura, popuso. be thou silent. 

Naciai ura na civin I come, I run ; open the 

Ha pe uderini ti bin. door that I may enter. 

Ha pe uderi escrotini Open the door by halves, 

Ti vin ti mar servetini. that I may take my tur- 

ban. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 

Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 

Gi egem spirta esimiro. 

Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 

Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 

Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



Va le ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

Phi hari ti tireti 

Plu huron cia pra seti. 



Caliriotes' with the dark 
eyes, open the gate that 
I may enter, 

Lo, lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 

An Arnaout girl, in costly 
garb, walks with grace- 
ful pride. 

Caliriot maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 

If I have kissed thee, what 
hast thou gained ? My 
soul is consumed with 
fire. 

Dance lightly, more gently, 
and gently still. 

Make not so much dust to 
destroy your embroider- 
ed hose. 



The last stanza would puzzle a commentator : the men 
have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, 
but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be ad- 
dressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 

< The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed 
u Caliriotes ;» for what reason I inquired in -vain. 



and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes very white 
ancle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer than the 
Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. They 
preserve their shape much longer also, from being al- 
ways in the open air. It is to be observed that the 
Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of this 
song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, are 
spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied 
by one who speaks and understands the dialect perfectly, 
and who is a native of Athens. 

Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love, 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to 

scorch myself. 

Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me! 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. Ah, maid ! thou hast 

struck me to the heart. 

Uti tasa roba stua I have said I wish no dow- 

Sitti eve tulati dua. ry but thine eyes and 

eye-lashes. 

Roba stinori ssidua The accursed dowry I want 

Qu mi sini vetti dua. not, but thee only. 

Ourmini dua civileni Give me thy charms, and 

Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. let the portion feed the 

flames. 

Utara pisa vaisisso me simi I have loved thee, maid, 

rin ti hapti with a sincere soul, but 

Eti mi hire a piste si gui thou hast left me like a 

dendroi tiltati. withered tree. 

Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If I have placed my hand 
cova cilti mora on thy bosom, what have 

Udorini talti hollua u ede I gained? my hand is 
caimona mora. withdrawn, but retains 

the flame. 

I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An 
idea something similar to the thought in the last lines 
was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in 
contact with one of his « bnoy.o'Xnioi, » Crkobulus 
or Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting 
pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and 
therefore very properly resolved to teach his disciples 
in future without touching them. 

Note 3i. Song, stanza 1. 

Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy 'larum afar, etc. 
These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- 
nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by 
the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic'and Italian. 

Note 32. Song, stanza 8. 

Remember the moment when Previsa fell. 

It was taken by storm from the French. 

Note 33. Stanza lxxiii. 
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth, etc. 
Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
subjoined papers. 

Note 34- Stanza Ixxiv. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train. 

Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
has still considerable remains: it was seized by Thrasy- 
bulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



9 1 



Note 35. Stanza lxxvii. 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. 
When taken by the Latins and retained for several 
years. — See Gibbox. 

Note 36. Stanza lxxvii. 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 

Note 37. Stanza Ixxxv. 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 
On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
tense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on the 
plains, even in winter. 

Note 38. Stanza Ixxxvi. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 

Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 

Of Blount Pentelicus_, from whence the marble was 

dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. 

The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense 

cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till 

the end of time. 

Note 39. Stanza Ixxxix. 
When Marathon became a magic word — 
« Siste, viator — heroa calcas!» was the epitaph on 
the famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our 
feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two 
hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The prin- 
cipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few 
or no relics, as vases, etc., were found by the excava- 
tor. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale 
at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine 
hundred pounds! Alas! — « Expende — quot libras in 
duce summo— invenies?»— was the dust of Miltiades 
worth no more? it could scarcely have fetched less if 
sold by vjeiglit. 

PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 
I. 

Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
body, traveller or not, lias thought it necessary to say 
something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to 
have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of 
a gentleman than a «Disdar Aga» (who by the by is 
not an Aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the 
greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw (except Lord 
E.), and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a 
handsome annual stipend of 100 piastres (eight pounds 
sterling), out of which he has only to pay his garrison, 
the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Otto- 
man Empire. 1 speak it tenderly, seeing I was once 
the cause of the husband of « Ida of Athens » nearly 
suffering the bastinado; and because the said « Disdar» 
is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that I 
exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separate 
maintenance in behalf of « Ida.» Having premised thus 
much, on a matter of such import to the readers of 
romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention her birth- 
place. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
associations which it would be pedantic and super- 
fluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens 



would render it the favourite of all who have eyes for 
art or nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a 
perpetual spring ; during eight months I never passed a 
clay without being as many hours on horseback; rain 
is extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a 
cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, 
and every part of the east which I visited, except Ionia 
and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate 
to our own; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
May, June, and part of July (iSto), you might « damn 
the climate, and complain of spleen, » five days out of 
seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but 
the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of 
Megara, the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear 
Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of 
a Boeotian winter. 

We fouud at Livadia an « esprit fort » in a Greek 
bishop, of all free-thinkers! This worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not 
j before his flock), and talked of a mass as a « coglio- 
I neria.» It was impossible to think belter of him for 
this: but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his ab- 
surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed 
of Thebes, the remains of Chaeronea, the plain of 
Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of 
Trophonius), was the only remarkable tiling we saw 
before we passed Mount Cithreron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- 
panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- 
sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may 
contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen 
streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided 
to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and 
even that had a villanous twang, probably from the 
snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever like 
poor Dr Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, 
the plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the jEgean, 
and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or 
Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the 
Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
equal it, though so superior in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but, except- 
ing the view from the monastery of Megaspelion (which 
is inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the 
descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza 
to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond 
the name. 

u Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos. » 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but 
an Argive; and (with reverence be it spoken) it does 
not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Sta- 
tius, « In mediis audit duo littora campis,» did actually 
hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he 
had better ears than have ever been worn in such a 
journey since. 

« Athens,» says a celebrated topographer, « is still the 
most polished city of Greece. » Perhaps it may of 
Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joanniua, in Epirus, 
is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be supe- 
rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of 
its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for 



9 2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



their cunning; and the lower orders are not impro- 
perly characterized in that proverb, which classes them 
■with « the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negro. 
pont.» 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there was 
never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- 
puted with great acrimony. 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty 
years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have 
known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently 
declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve 
to be emancipated: reasoning on the grounds of their 
« national and individual depravity,» while he forgot 
that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which 
can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long 
settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gra- 
vity: «Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in 
the days of Tkemistocles!* an alarming remark to the 
« laudator temporis acti.» The ancients banished The- 
mistocles; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque: thus 
great men have ever been treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most 
of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc., of passage, 
came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn 
the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by 
his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the 
Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
of the day, who divide between them the power of 
Pericles, and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the 
poor Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in 
the utter condemnation, w nulla virtute redemtum,» 
of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in par- 
ticular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, 
knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less 
than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most 
threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- 
sons of wit, and honour, and regular common-place 
books: but, if I may say this without offence, it seems 
to me rather hard to declare so positively and pertina- 
ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the 
Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
gyrics and projects; but, on the other hand, de Pauw 
and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they 
ever should', but they maybe subjects without being 
slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they 
are free and industrious, and such may Greece be here- 
after. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland, and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and 
physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a 
struggle against truth; they are vicious in their own 
defence. They are so unused to kindness, that when 
they occasionally meet with it they look upon it with 
suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers 



if you attempt to caress him. « They are ungrateful, 
notoriously, abominably ungrateful! » — this is the ge- 
neral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis! for what 
are they to be grateful ? Where is the human being 
that ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? 
They are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, 
and to the Franks for their broken promises and lying 
counsels. They are to be grateful to the artist who 
engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries 
them away: to the traveller whose janissary flogs ihern, 
and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them? This 
is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. 

II. 

Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. 

Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the 
earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist 
in different countries; whose inhabitants, however di- 
vided in religion and manners, almost all agree in op- 
pression. 

The English have at last compassionated their ne- 
groes, and under a less bigoted government, may pro- 
bably one day release their Catholic brethren: but the 
interposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the 
Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a 
chance of redemption from the Turks as the Jews have 
from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
at least the younger men of Europe devote much of 
their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, 
which would be more usefully spent in mastering their 
own. Of the moderns we are perhaps more neglectful 
than they deserve; and while every man of any preten- 
sions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often his 
age, in the study of the language and of the harangues 
of the Athenian demagogues in favour of freedom; 
the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy repub- 
licans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, 
although a very slight effort is required to strike off 
their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 
again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous; 
as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, after 
re-asserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there seems 
to be no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the 
Franks, to their becoming a useful dependency, or even 
a free state with a proper guarantee;— under correction, 
however, be it spoken, for many and well-informed 
men doubt the practicability even of this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they 
are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their 
probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians ; 
but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by 
that power, and the dreadful lesson they received after 
the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been 
forgotten. The French they dislike : although the sub- 
jugation of the rest of Europe will probably be attended 
by the deliverance of continental Greece. The islanders 
look to the English for succour, as they have very lately 
possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu ex- 
cepted. But whoever appear with arms in their hands 
will be welcome; and when that day arrives, Heaven 
have mercy on the Ottomans; they cannot expect it 
from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been and 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



93 



speculating on what they may be, let us look at them 
as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety 
of opinions: some, particularly the merchants, decrying 
the Greeks in the strongest language; others, generally 
travellers, turning periods iu their eulogy, and publish- 
ing very curious speculations grafted on their former 
state, which can have no more effect on their present 
lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future for- 
tunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the « natural 
allies » of Englishmen; another, no less ingenious, ■will 
not allow them to be the allies of any body, and denies 
their very descent from the ancients; a third, more in- 
genious than either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian 
foundation, and realizes (en paper) all the chimeras of 
Catherine If. As to the question of their descent, what 
can it import whether the Mainotes are the lineal La- 
conians or not? or (he present Athenians as indigenous 
as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to 
which they once likened themselves? What English- 
man cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or 
Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welchmau, is afflicted 
with a desire of being descended from Caractacus? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
things of this world, as to render even their claims to 
antiquity an object of envy; it is very cruel then in Mr 
Thorutou, to disturb them in the possession of all that 
time has left them; viz. their pedigree, of which they 
are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their 
own. It would be worth while to publish together, and 
compare, the works of Messrs Thornton and De Pauw, 
Eton and Sonnini; paradox on one side, and prejudice 
on the other. Mr Thornton conceives himself to have 
claims to public confidence from a fourteen years' resi- 
dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the 
Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the 
real stale of Greece and her inhabitants, than as many 
years spent in >Yapping, into that of the Western High- 
lands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live iu Fanal ; and if 
Mr Thornton did not ofteuer cross the Golden Horn 
than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
should place no great reliance ou his information. I 
actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their 
little general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
four times at Constantinople in as many years. 

As to Mr Thornton's voyages iu the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as 
a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny 
Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does he arro- 
gate the right of condemning by wholesale a body of 
men, of whom he can know little? It is rather a curious 
circumstance that Mr Thornton, who so lavishly dis- 
praises Pouqueville on every occasion of mentioning 
the Turks, has yet recourse to him as authority on the 
Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr 
Pouqueville is as little entitled to that appellation, as 
Mr Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of informa- 
tion on the subject of the Greeks, audio particular their 
literature; nor is ihere any probability of our being bet- 
ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- 
mate or their independence confirmed : the relations of 
passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the 



invectives of angry factors; but till something more can 
be attained, we must be content with the little to be ac- 
quired from similar sources. 1 

However defective these may be, they are preferable 
to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of 
the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such 
as De Pauw; who, when he asserts that the British 
breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the 
Spartans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal 
knowledge of English horses and Spartan men. His 
« philosophical observations" have a much better claim 
to the title of « poetical. » It could not be expected 
that he who so liberally condemns some of the most 
celebrated institutions of the ancient, should have 
mercy on the modern Greeks : and it fortunately hap- 
pens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis on their fore- 
fathers refutes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of 
De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr Thornton, there is a 
reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
who, whatever may be the errors of their religiou and 
policy, have been amply punished by three centuries 
and a half of captivity. 

III. 

Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1S1 1. 
«I must have some talk with this learned Theban.» 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city I received the thirty-first number of the Edin- 
burgh Review as a great favour, and certaiuly at this 
distance an acceptable one, from the Captain of an 
English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3. 
containing the review of a French translation ofStrabo, 
there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
Coray, a co-translator in the French version. Ou those 
remarks I mean to ground a few observations, and 
the spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient 
excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
conuected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated 
of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was born 



* A word, en passant, with Mr Thornton and Dr Pouqueville, 
who have been guilty between them of saJIv clipping the Sultan's 
Turkish. 

Br Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed 
corrosive sublimate, in such quantities that he acquired the name 
of a Sule-jman Yeyen,* i. e.. quoth the doctor, ■ Suleyman, the eater 
of corrosive sublimate.* u Aha," thinks Mr Thornton (angry with the 
docior for the fiftieth time), a have I caught you '!* — Then, in a note 
twic the thickness of the doctor's anecdote, he questions the doc- 
tor's proficiency in th -Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own. 
" For,» observes Mr Thornton (after inflicting on us the tough par- 
ticiple of a Turkish verb), ■ it means nothing more than Suleyman 
the eater,* and quite cashiers the supplementary * sublimate.* .Vow- 
both are right and both are wrong. If Mr Thornton, when he nest 
resides - fourteen years in the factory," will consult his Turkish 
dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will dis- 
cover that a Suleyma'u yeijen,* put together discreetly, mean the 
1 Sit al'.ower of sublimate,* without any * Suleyman* in the case; 
" Suleyma* signifying « corrosive subl. mate,* and not being a pro- 
per name on this occasion, although it bean orthodo : name enough 
with the addition of ». After Mr Thornton's frequent hints of 
profound orientalism, he might ha\e found this out before he sang 
such paeans over Dr Pouqueville. 

After this, I think a Travellers versus Factors a shall be our 
motto, though the above Mr Thornton has condemned * hoc genus 
omne," for mistake and misrepresentation, a >"e Sutor ultra cre- 
pidami — a No merchant beyond his bales." X.B. for the benefit of 
Mr Thornton, » Sutor a is not a proper name. 



94 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



at Scio (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have reason 
to think, incorrectly), and, besides the translation of 
Beccaria and other works mentioned by the reviewer, 
has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I 
may trust the assurance of some Danish travellers 
lately arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen 
here in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zaliko- 
glou. 1 Coray has recently been iuvolved in an unplea- 
sant controversy with M. Gail, 2 a Parisian commentator 
and editor of some translations from the Greek poets, 
in consequence of the Institute having awarded him the 
prize for his version of Hippocrates «Hap\ u*5«T&)v,» 
etc., to the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, 
of the said Gail. To his exertions literary and patriotic 
great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that 
praise ought not to be withheld from fhe two brothers 
Zosimas (merchants settled in Leghorn), who sent 
him to Paris, and maintained him, for the express 
purpose of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the 
modern researches of his countrymen. Coray, however, 
is not considered by his countrymen equal to some 
who lived in the two last centuries : more particularly 
Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic writings are so 
much esteemed by the Greeks, that Meletius terms him, 
« MeTa tov Qov/.uSioriV xsd Eavopwvra oipLcros 
E^vwv.» (P. 224. Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.) 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more 
particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
The last -mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
a work on « True Happiness, » dedicated to Catherine II. 
Rut Polyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be the 
only modern except Coray who has distinguished him- 
self by a kuowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois 
Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a num- 
ber of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less 
than an itinerant vender of books; with the contents 
of which he had no concern beyond his name on the 
title-page, placed there to secure his property in the 
publication, and he was, moreover, a man utterly desti- 
tute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, however, 
is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have edited 
the Epistles of Aristaenetus. 

It is to be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
the Greeks received their publications, particularly 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works the Geography of Mele- 
tius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- 
logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met 
with : their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
four languages, are numerous and excellent. Their poe- 
try is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have lately 

• I have in my possession an excellent Lexicon « T/9ty)>W(7<70V, »■ 
which I received in exchange from S. G— , Esq., for a small gem: 
my antiquarian friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 

2 In Gail's pamphlet agaiust Coray, he talks of « throwing the 
insolent Helleniste out of the windows." On this a French critic 
exclaims, u Ah, my God 1 throw a Helleniste out of the window ! 
what sacrilege '.ji It certainly would he a serious husiness for those 
authors who dwell in the attics: but I have quoted the passage 
merely to prove the similarity of style among the controversialists 
of all polished countries; London or Edinburgh could hardly pa- 
rallel this Parisian ebullition. 



seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, English, 
and French traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia 
(or Blackbey, as they term him), an archbishop, a 
merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in succession; 
to all of whom under the Turks the writer attributes 
their present degeneracy. Their songs are sometimes 
pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally unpleasing 
to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous .< Asuts 
Trat<5esT&)V EiOi»jv&>v,» by the unfortunate Riga. But 
from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now be- 
fore me, only fifteen can be found who have touched 
on any theme except theology. 

I am entrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, 
if possible, for printing in London a translation of 
Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other 
opportunity, unless he dispatches the MS. to Vienna by 
the Black Sea and Danube. 

The reviewer mentions a school established at Heca- 
tonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Scbastiani ; 
he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali : a town 
on the continent where that institution, for a hundred 
students and three professors; still exists. It is true 
that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, 
under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- 
structing a fortress instead of a college ; but on inves- 
tigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, 
it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- 
fessor, named Veniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to be 
a man of talent, but a free-thinker. He was born in 
Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, La- 
tin, and some Frank languages, besides a smattering of 
the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on 
this topic than may allude to the article in question, I 
cannot but observe that the reviewers lamentation over 
the fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes 
it with these words : « the change is to be attributed to 
their misfortunes rather than to any physical degrada- 
tion.* It may be true that the Greeks are not physi- 
cally degenerated, and that Constantinople contained, 
on the day when it changed masters, as many men of 
six feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity ; but 
ancient history and modern politics instruct us that 
something more than physical perfection is necessary 
to preserve a state in vigour and independence ; and the 
Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy example of the 
near connexion between moral degradation and na- 
tional decay. 

The reviewer mentions a plan, « vje believe,* by Po- 
temkin , for the purification of the Romaic, and I have 
endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of 
its existence. There was an academy in St Petersburg 
for the Greeks; but it was suppressed by Paul, and has 
not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can onlybe a slip of the 
pen, in p. 58, No. xxxi, of the Edinburgh Review, where 
these words occur : — «We are told that when the capi- 
tal of the East yielded to Solyman»— It may he pre- 
sumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be 
altered to Mahomet II. ' The « ladies of Constantinople,)) 

1 In a former nurnber of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is ob- 
served, u Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, 
where he might have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, 
any more than duet means a fiddle.* Query,— Was it in Scotland 
that the voting gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review learned that 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



it seems, at that period spoke a dialect, « which would 
not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian." I do not 
know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much 
altered; being far from choice either in their dialect or 
expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a 
proverb : 

« £> AS-Tj-Jcx. npctiTvi y&pv. 

Tt yy.iay.povs rpifeis T<w/?a;» 

In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence : — 
« The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, 
though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models. » 
Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult 
to conceive that the « ladies of Constantinople,)) in the 
reign of the last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna 
Comnena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
although the princess yl&TTCtv ziyj.'> AKPIBQ2 &T?lxi- 
^ovaocv. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek 
is spoken: in the latter there is a flourishing school 
under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is 
making a tour of observation through Greece : he is in- 
telligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner 
of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the 
spirit of inquiry is not dormant amongst the Greeks. 

The reviewer mentions Mr Wright, the author of the 
beautiful poem « Hora Ionicae,» as qualified to give de- 
tails of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, 
and also of their language : but Mr Wright, though a 
good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where 
he states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- 
mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak 
a Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- 
deenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina ( where, 
next to Fanal, the Greek is purest ), although the 
capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but 
Epirus: and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper up to 
Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which I did not 
advance),. they speak worse Greek than even the Athe- 
nians. I was attended for a year and a half by two of 
these singular mountaineers, whose- mother tongue is 
Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen 
(whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount 
of twenty thousand in the army of Veli Pacha ) praised 
for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provin- 
cial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written 
to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the 
dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea ( which last 
governs in Veli Pacha's absence) are said to be favour- 

Solyman means Mahomet II, any more than criticism means infalli- 
bility'!— -but thus it is, 

« Cedimus inque viceni prsbemus crura sagittis.* 
The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the 
great similarity of the two words, and the total absence of error 
from the former pages of the literary leviathan), that I should have 
passed it over as in the test, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh 
Review much facetious exultation on all such detections, particularly 
a recent one, where words and syllables are subjects of disquisi- 
tion and transposition ; and the above-mentioned parallel passage 
in my own case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much easier 
it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed 
many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight 
ovation for the present. 



able specimens of their epistolary style. I also received 
some at Constantinople from private persons, written 
in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique 
character. 

The reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 
tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox ( page 
5g) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own 
language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely 
to understand the ancient Greek, because he is perfect 
master of the modern ! This observation follows a pa- 
ragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of 
the Romaic, as « a powerful auxiliary, » not only to the 
traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the classical 
scholar ; in short, to every body except the only person 
who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses : and 
by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured 
to be probably more attainable by « foreigners" than 
by ourselves ! Npw I am inclined to think, that a Dutch 
tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon blood) 
would be sadly perplexed with « Sir Tristrem," or any 
other given « Auchinleck MS.» with or without a gram- 
mar or glossary; and to most apprehensions it seems 
evident, that none but a native can acquire a competent, 
far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. 
We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no 
more believe him than we do Smollett's Lismahago, who 
maintains that the purest English is spoken in Edin- 
burgh. That Coray may err is very possible; but if he 
does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother 
tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid 
to the native student. — Here the reviewer proceeds to 
business on Strabo's translators, and here I close my 
remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond, Mr Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, 
Dr Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr Gell, Mr Walpole, and 
many others now in England, have all the requisites to 
furnish details of this fallen people. The few observa- 
tions I have offered I should have left where I made 
them, had not the article in question, and, above ail, 
the spot where I read if, induced me to advert to those 
pages, which the advantage of my present situation en- 
abled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of 
the Edinburgh Review; not from a wish to conciliate 
the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance 
of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from 
a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more 
particularly at this distance of time and place. 

ADDITIONAL NOTE ON THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much 
exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished of 
late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a 
kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks 
and Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them 
twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
from themselves. As far as my own slight experience 
carried me I have no complaint to make ; but am in- 
debted for many civilities (I might almost say for 
friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son 
Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high rank 
in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as 
social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. During the carnival, when our English party 
were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to « receive masks» than any dowager in 
G ros ven or-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his 
friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried from 
table perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom, 
while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed in his 
fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
In transacting business with them, there are none of 
those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, 
difference of exchange, commission, etc. etc., uniformly 
found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even 
on the first houses in Pera. 

With regard to presents, an established custom in the 
East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one worth 
acceptance is generally returned by another of similar 
value — a horse or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers 
are formed in the same school with those of Christia- 
nity; but there does not exist a more honourable, 
friendly, and high-spirited character than the true Turk- 
ish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It 
is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, 
but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, pos- 
sess lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece 
and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to 
civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our 
country towns, would be more incommoded in Eng- 
land than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. 
Regimentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion, and different sects 
of Islamism, may be found in D'Olisson's French; of 
their manners, etc., perhaps in Thornton's English. The 
Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be 
despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are supe- 
rior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce 
what they are, we can at least say what they are not .- 
they are nor treacherous, they are not cowardly, they 
do not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an 
enemy advanced to their capital. They are faithful to 
their sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout 
to their God without an inquisition. Were they driven 
from St Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians 
enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, 
whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England 
would certainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
generally, and sometimes justly, accused, it may be 
doubted, always excepting France and England, in what 
useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other 
nations. Is it in the common arts of life? In their 
manufactures? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo ? 
or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and 
taught, than a Spaniard? Are their Pachas worse edu- 
cated than a Grandee ? or an Effendi than a Knight of 
St Jago? I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 
the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this 



question from a boy of ten years old proved that his 
education had not been neglected. It may be doubted 
if an English boy at that age knows the difference of 
the Divan from a College of Dervises; but I am very 
sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, sur- 
rounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, 
had learned that there was such a thing as a parlia- 
ment it were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose 
that his instructors did not confine his studies to the 
Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended; and the poor are 
taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. 1 believe the system is not yet printed (though 
there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
printed on the late military institution of the Nizam 
Gedidd) ; nor have 1 heard whether the Mufti and the 
Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous 
youth of the turban should be taught not to « pray to 
God their way.» The Greeks, also — a kind of Eastern 
Irish papists — have a college of their own at Maynooth 
— no, at Haivali; where the heterodox receive much 
the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as 
the Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
shall then affirm, that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
when they thus evince the exact proportion of Chris- 
tian charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous 
and orthodox of all possible kingdoms? But, though 
they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to 
participate in their privileges : no, let them fight their 
battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in 
this world, and damned in the next. And shall we 
then emancipate our Irish Helots? Mahomet forbid! 
We should then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Chris- 
tians; at present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical 
faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish 
toleration. 



APPENDIX. 



Amongst an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse 
to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it is 
less to be wondered at that we find so few publications 
on general subjects than that we find any at all. The 
whole number of the Greeks, scattered up and down 
the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at 
most, to three millions; and yet, for so scanty a num- 
ber, it is impossible to discover any nation with so 
great a proportion of books and their authors, as the 
Greeks of the present century. « Ay,» but say the 
generous advocates of oppression, who, while they as- 
sert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them 
from dispelling it, « ay, but these are mostly, if not 
all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for no- 
things) Well ! and pray what else can they write 
about? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, parti- 
cularly an Englishman, who may abuse the govern- 
ment of his own country; or a Frenchman, who may 
abuse every government except his own, and who may 
range at will over every philosophical, religious, scien- 
tific, sceptical, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek 
legends. A Greek must not write on politics, and can- 
not touch on science for want of instruction; if he 



GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



97 



doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; therefore 
his countrymen are not poisoned -with modern philo- 
sophy ; and as to morals, thanks to the Turks ! there 
are no such things. What then is left him, if he has a 
turn for scribbling? Religion and holy biography: and 
it is natural enough that those who have so little in 
this life should look to the next. It is no great -wonder 
then that in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five 
Greek writers, many of whom were lately living, not 
above fifteen should have touched on any thing but 
religion. The catalogue alluded to is contained in the 
twenty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's 
Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin an extract 
of those who have written on general subjects; which 
will be followed by some specimens of the Romaic. 

LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS. 1 

Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
published an extensive grammar, and also some poli- 
tical regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
death. 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has writ- 
ten and published a catalogue of the learned Greeks. 

Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works 
in the Turkish language, but Greek character; for the 
Christians of Garamania who do not speak Romaic, 
but read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
the tour of England for the purpose of study [yy.ptv 
f/.!/.6^Gsoii ) : but though his name is enumerated, it is 
not stated that he has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople ; 
many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, 
and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
Constantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 

Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
many works, particularly « A Commentary on Hesiod's 
Shield of Hercules, » and two hundred tales (of what, 
is not specified), and has published his correspondence 
with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his contem- 
porary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of the 
book from whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : 
his Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is esteemed 
by the moderns (I quote the words of Meletius) pszoc 
tov 0<5uxudic?y;v xai Esvopwvra ocpttj-ro? E^V/jvojv. 
I add further, on the authority of a well-informed 
Greek, that he was so famous amongst his countrymen, 
that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and 
Xenophon were wanting, he was capable of repairing 
the loss. 

Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, professor 
of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member 
of that academy, and those of Stockholm and Upsal. 
He has published, at Venice, an account of some 
marine animal, and a treatise on the properties of 
iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 



1 It is to be observed that the names given are not in chronolo- 
gical order, but consist of some selected at a venture from amongst 
those who flourished from the taking of Constantinople to the time 
of Meletius. 



He removed to St Petersburg the immense rock on 
which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. 
See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantine has published a four-tongued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote; a lexicon in French, Italian, and 
Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and 
Romaic, French, etc. besides grammars, in every modern 
language, except English. 

Amongst the living authors the following are most 
celebrated : l — 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric 
in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in 
Vienna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
lator of Fontenelle's « Plurality of AVorlds» (a favourite 
work amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a teacher 
of the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris, in both 
of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhe- 
toric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written, « s i$ 
to [xz<70o<y.pSu.po-j,» on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated .into 
French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be an 
excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geogra- 
phical work : he has also translated several Italian au- 
thors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already 
given. 



GREEK WAR SONG. 2 



AEY TE TTOt&s twv E»,>jvwv, 

/.at/505 T>fc 00%-k vp.0cv. 
A? pavS/ASV v.%iol iy.zhuv 

Ttov py.$ d*oj!7av tt;v dpyv]-j. 
Ag 7raTv;(7&j ( ucV y.vo'pciojg 

tov ^uyb-j tvJj rupavvido*;. 
E/.&X7JTW//2V TTaryot'Jbs 

xuds ovzidoi cdaypov. 

Ta otiIoc as ly.Sup.vJ' 

Tratd"^ EMvjvojv, ciyupz-j. 
Uoza.p.r,>$bv lyOp&v to cx.ip.cx. 

«5 T/Osfyj U7TO TTOo'wv. 
2. 

08sV sJgOc tojv EMvjv&jv 

xexxa^a avo^stw/z-sva ; 
nveup.xTcc hxop-itjp.evx, 

rtipot "ky.Szts Trvovjv ; 
'2 tv?v jjwvyjv tvjs cc/.l-iyyos p.00 

cuvecyd^rs o\y. op.ou. 

TyjV £-T«>OpOV £v}T£iTS, 

xai vtxaTs Tzpb 7tavTOu. 

Tx 07T>,a cig ).a§w//.sv , etc. 

1 These nrfmes are not taken from any publication. 

2 A translation of this song will be found at page 524. 

i3 



98 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



iTZotpTU, Znv.prcc, Tt xot//.asat 

torvov IrjOxpyov, jSadvv; 
%i>Ttvr,oo-J, xpo£s. Aflvjvag, 

avpuccyov 7ravTOT£tvvjv. 
EvQup-JGOV Aeowldou 

fyowog T6U '|axouir"Oy, 
too avc^og lj:a.vj*p.i\>ou, 

(poospoxj xou zpop-spov. 

T« orr).« ag 16.Qoip.e-J , etc. 

4- 

Orrou dg Tag &spp.oT:i)l<x.s 

7T0/S//0V auTog xpoTsi, 
xai tous ne'ysoag apavt££t 

xal aurwv xaTax/saT£t. 
Ms rptaxoaiovs civdpas, 

els to xivrpov Ttpoyospei, 
xat, wg Xs'ftJV S-u/^w/Ae'vog, 

e?s to at//a twv floors!. 

Ta bizlx as Aa&o/jtsv , etc. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Pwssog, AyyXog, xatEa>Aog xa//.vovT£s tvjv 7:epiY)y/}Giv 
rrji EAAaJbg, xat /sA£7rovT£g tvjv a#Atav tvjv xara- 
(j-ao-tv, ipoiirpow xxvupyus sva F/oatxov jjt/s'AAvjva 
c?ta va p.6.dow tvjv atTtav, //st' auTcv eva p.r,rpo- 
TroAtV/jv, £tra sva /sAa^uTTcyjv , STrstra sva Ttpxypx- 
TiUTvjv xat eva -poezTOizcc. 
Eini //.ag, w jPtAe'AAvjva, 7rwg yepeis tvjv axAa&'av 
xai t-/jv &Ttap7iydpriT0v twv TeO^xeov ri/pwiav, 
Ti&ij -ralj Sfy/tats xai. ii§pivp.ovs X*i oiSr,po§-ap.lxi> 
— at'dwv, rra/sfls'vwv, yuvatxcov av/jxouaTOv fdopsiav. 
Akv st'afl' caslg v.nbyovoi sxstvwv twv EAAyjveov 
twv gkeudipav xat cropwv xat twv fikoizarfASoiv ; 
xat Tiwg £xstvot aTTs'^vyjffxov ; yta tvjv eXsudipix-j. 
xai Tw^sa £<js"ig bizoxefsde els rsrotav Tu^avvt'av! 
xat Tiotov ys'vog wg icTgts itruO-/) jJWTto/Ae'vov 
£;g tvjv aoptav, 6vvxp.LV, £tg x' oAa cjaxoua^svov ; 
ttws vuv sxaTa<7T>jc?aTS tvjv owts£vvjv EAAacTa ; 
/2a£a! wg sva axekeBpov, wj cxoTstvvjv Aa/^TTac^av. 
Opilsi, 5?t"ATaT£ Tpxixi, elite p.ag tvjv atTtav, 
p.Yj xpimzYis TtTTOTcj, yj//wv Au£ tvjv o\izo pixv . 

6 q>IAE'AAHNA2. 

PwaT-ayyAo-yaAAot, EAAag, xat o;/t a'AAot, 

^tov, cog Aers , Toaov psycklr). 

vuv !?s uBllx, xat ava£ta 

ap' ou y.pyisvj vj dp.xOix. 

6 s Yip.no povsxv va tvjv Iuttvougu 

tout' £^ s - to ^sljcov TVJV GOr,yTJ<Jl. 

air/; BTTSva^st, i« Ts'xva xp&.^et , 
gto va TtpoxoTTTOir; oju tc postoj^ei , 
xat tot' £>7TtcJ-:£ oVt xepSt^et 
ebpevi sxeivo ttoj tv'jv vloyi^tt. 
Ma ocTtg TO^uvj^fij va t-<v |y-v^(r/j 
7ra7£t aTov acTv^v yupig Ttva xplatv. 

The above is the commencement of a long dramatic 
satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry; it 
is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious 
as a specimen of their rhyme ; I have the whole in MS. 



but this extract will be found sufficient. The Romaic 
in this composition is so easy as to render a version an 
insult to a scholar; but those who do not understand 
the original will excuse the following bad translation of 
what is in itself indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman, making the 
tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of 
the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to 
learn the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then a 
Vlackbey,' a Merchant, and Cogia Oachi or Primate. 

Thou friend of thy country! to strangers record 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman lord ? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd, 

The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid! 

The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye '. 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slaye ! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost: 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase, 

Oh shameful dishonour ! the darkness of Greece? 

Then tell us, beloved Achaean ! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, as 
it is no better than the question of the travelling trium- 
virate ; and the above will sufficiently show with what 
kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied. I 
trust I have not much injured the original in the few 
lines given as faithfully, and as near the « Oh, Miss Bai- 
ley ! unfortunate Miss Bailey !» measure of the Romaic, 
as I could make them. Almost all their pieces, above 
a song, which aspire to the name of poetry, contain 
exactly the quantity of feet of 

"A captain bold of Ilalifax. who lived in country quarters," 

which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the Ro- 
maic. 



SCENE FROM 6 KA<t>ENE2. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI BY 
SI'IRIDON VLANTI. 

ZKHNH KE'. 
TIAATZIAA sl$ tvjv Ttdprccv too yuviou, xat ot 

«VW0SV. 

IIAA. Q 0££'! u~b to ixapocOvpi p.ou epavvj va 
dxovuoj tvjv jjwvjjv to j «v<J/505 //.ow «v a.JTOs eivai £dw, 
eydccax us xxipbv va tov sevrpaiudcata. [Evyxivei ivxs 
tfoy/OS arro to ipyy.<Ji-r\p'-\ Tlcclixckpi, 7Ts's p.ou, ok 7Ta- 
pocxoclGi, noibg stvat £xst els ixehous tous ovrufes; 

AOf A. Tresis yprjaip.oi y.vSpes- Eva; 6 xitp Euyi- 
vios, bvXkos oxuysMa/JTtogNiaTTO/tTavo,-, xoubrpizos 
o Kvp KovTe Aeavd/oo; Ajods'vrvjs. 

IIAA. Ava//.£ca zls a'JTOUg cTsv etvou o 4>^a,u.tvto>, 
av bp.us <?sva'A>a£sv bvopx. 

AEA. Na £vj vj y.cCkv, tu^vj tou xup Evysviou. [Lit- 
vwvTag. ] 

OAOl. Na C>7, v«^. 

IIAA. Autos £tvat o avc^aj p.ov yvpU a'AAo. 
Kotlk czvOpuTts , xup.e p.ou t/jv y^xptv va p.k auvrpo- 

' Vlackbey, Prince of Wallachia. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



99 



osucy;, dnavca els sojtovs zovg tkf£VT<x$es t o~ov Stzjm 
vazovi Txuisco pix-j. [Upbs rbv oov\o-j.] 

AOY. dpKJiJ.6ioy.i- (rjvrfii'jp.z-JO-j Gfjiy.iovz&-j §o-j- 
IsuTow.) [Tvjv ip—y^zt. u~b zb zpyxozypi zoxj itxi- 
y-Jidiov. ] 

PIA. Kyp'hy., yxpSix, y.yy.zzz xockijv xxpil&v, Skv 
shxt zi-ozsi. [Upbi tyjv Btzzopix-J.] 

BIT. Eyd) xiaQx-Jopxt ttwj v.-z9xL-jw. [Ivvzpyzrxi 
sti zo-j ia!>T5v tv;,-. ] 

[Atto t« -y.cy.Qjpy. twv ovtkO^v fxhovzxi 'old, 
bnou Gr,-/.6v'j)VTCti y.nb zb zpy.~z%i tsuyyisps- 
VOl , <?£« tov ^apvwv.ov tou hzvydpou /SXs'ttwv- 
ra; t-/;v nXaT£c£a, xai ctarc kjtos dziyyzi ttwj 
S-s>££ va tv;v cjovsi/'T*].] 

EYT. 6'^i, ffTK^TS. 

MAP. Myjv y.yp.'Jszz... 

AEA. 2vjxgj, pu'/s dbr' i&i. 

IIAA. Bov;y's£a, (Zorfizix. [4>sir/S£ arro zy,j sx«/\ocv b 

Azxvopog S;s'/s£ vaT^v '}:/.o\ouQr,Tr\ u.z zb o-adi, y.x\ 
6 Euy. tov [iy.Gzx. ] 

[TPA. Ms eva ~ixzo p.z fxyi el-; p.lx-j —zz&zx 
rzrfix <y.~b zb -rxpxQiipi, xai jpjuyst st*; tov xapsvs'.] 

[IIAA. Evyxhet y.izb zb zpyxuz-ripi zoxj ~cx.iyjioi.ou 
zpzyorjzxi, xai pzvyzi. zig zb %(kvi.] 

[ EYr. Ms xpp.xzx dg zb yjpt ~pb? oixfvjzz-jacj 
z?ii Tlly.zZidxi, hxvzio-j zoxj Asavoysou, qtzoxj ztj-j 
y.xzxz piyzi.] 

[3IAP. EJyxhei xai ovjzbi stya. aiyy.u.-b zb ipyx- 
GZ-sipi, xai ozvyztlzyoyjzxi' Rumores fuge.] [Poujuc- 
pz 5 fevys. ] ' 

[0£ \o\j\oi &-b zb zpyy.'jz-fipi y.-.zp-joxj-j els to yc/.vi, 

V.CLl X/S£3UV Z7jV ~6pzCi-J. ] 

[BIT. Mi'jzt els tov xx'fsv'z /3or,#77//.s'v7} u~b tov 
Pioo/^o-j. ] 

AEA. Aogsts zoTZO-j- Szlu va s/a&u va s//£co st; 
sxzl-JO zb yu'jc. [Ms to a~y.Q\ zU zo yzpi hx-jzio-j 
zoxj Evyz-Jto-j.] 

EYT. O^t, //.'/j yz'JOtzo Ttori' zlsxi evag a/.lr,po- 
yy.pooi i-jy.-jziov rvj; yj-jy.i7.6i gov, xai s'/w S-s'Xs: t>jv 
©tajJsvTsiffCd w; stj to vzzzpov yXpjy.. 

AEA. 2ou /.y.ij.voi op-/.o-j ttw; S-s'/st to //.zzyvoiojor^. 
[Ku-jrrjy. tov E-jyZ'Jiov p.'z zb a-y.9i.] 

EYT. Asv as poGovp.ca. [Kyzazpiy-t rbv Azx-jcpov, 
xai tov /3ta£sc v« cupO-Tj 6-iooi zogo-j, b~o\j sjploy.oi-j- 
zxi d-Jor/.zbv zb c-vjtc t^; yopziizpixi , zp.Sxijzi sii 
ccjzq , xai acivsTsa. ] 

TRANSLATION. 

Platzida from the Door of the Hotel, and the Others. 

Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived 
in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant enters from 
the Shop.) Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those cham- 
bers? 

Serv. Three Gentlemen : one Signor Eugenio ; the 
other Signor Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the third, my 
Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pla. Flaminio is not amongst these, unless he has 
changed his name. 

1 Koyoi ~kct.zcJiy.biy b~ou Srzlzi va zi~^' yzvyz zoug 
tsvyyicsi. 



Leander [Within, drinking]. Long live the good 
fortune of Si;;nor Eugenio. 

[ The ivhole Company]. Long live, etc. (Literally, 
Na £yj, va Zo, May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [ To the 
Seru.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany 
me above to those gentlemen : I have some Business. 

Serv. At your, commands. [Aside.] The old office 
of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming-House.] 

Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] 
Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him 
as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all within are seen rising 
from the table in confusion : Leander starts at the 
sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures 
to tlireaten her life.] 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don't attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla. Help! help! [Flies down the stairs: Leander at- 
tempting to follow with Ids sword, Eugenio hinders 
him.] 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony 
from the window, and runs into the Coffee-house.] 

[Platzida runs out of the Gaming-house, and takes 
shelter in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-house, and 
goes off exclaiming, "Rumores fuge.» The Servants 
from the Gaming-house enter the Hotel, and shut the 
door.] 

[Victoria remains in the Coffee-house, assisted by 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims, 
Give way — I will enter that hotel.] 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop 
of my blood. 

Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Me- 
nacing with his sword.] 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander and 
makes him give back so much that, finding the door of 
the dancing-girl's house open, Leander escapes through, 
and so finishes.] > 

AIAAOTOI OIKTAKOI. FAMILIAR DIALOGUES. 

hiy.vy.^rft-i^oi'vjyr^puyiJ.y. To ask for any thing. 

Hi -zpyy.ylO) , oogzzz p.s I pray you, give me if you 

y.-j bpiZizz. please. 

Qzpzzi fas. Bring me. 

Aavst7STs'//.s. Lend me. 

H-oyx'i-JZ-z va C/;t^<7Sts. Go to seek. 

1 2c6vSTa£ — "finishes" — awkwardly enough, but it is the li- 
teral translation of the Romaic. The original of this comedy of 
Goldoni's I never read, but it does not appear one of his best. « II 
Bugiardo » is one of the most lively ; but I do not think it has been 
translated into Romaic: it is much more amusing than our own 
«Liar» by Foote. The character of Lelio is better drawn than 
Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount to fifty ; some perhaps 
the best in Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one of 
the best specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has observed, 
« more dramatic than any of his plays." The above scene was 
selected as containing some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, 
not for any wit which it displays, since there is more done than 
said, the greater part consisting of stage directions. The original 
is one of the few comedies by Goldoni which is without the buf- 
foonery of the speaking Harlequin. 



00 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tupa. suflug. 

£2 dbtpiSi /j.ov Yd) pis, x«/*s- 
ts /as aOr/jv t?;v ~/?-P VJ - 
Eydi aa; Tiapccjialdi. 
Eyco aa; Ifo/MtiCyH. 
Eycb <ra; to ^ttw fast ydpiv. 
TCTtoxpetiasTe /as d$ tocov. 

Adyicc £pwztY.d,r\ dydnr,;. 

Zcov; p.ou. 

AzpiS-/) p.ou tyvxri. 

Ayocrr^ri p.ou, dy.piSi p.ou. 

Kocpoh^a p.ov. 

AyaTTvj /aou. 

A£a v« ey^a^tor>5cyis, va 
xa/AYj; TtsptTtoir,Ges, xat 
p^xsa; (JsiftWs;. 

Eyw <?5; £j^a^5C5TW. 
25:; yvupi^ ydpiv. 
25; e?/Aac bizixpsos xaTa 

7To).>5. 

Eyco S-jXco to xc</as£ /ast5 

^5;. 

Ms oXvjv /aou tvjv xa/a&'av. 
Ms xa^vjv /aou xapoixv. 
2a; s?/Aa£ VTtoxpsog. 
EI/jloci bios edtxos era;. 
Elp.a.1 §ov\6$ 7xg. 
Ta7TS£V0T«T0; dovlos. 
eIuts xaTa TroMa suysvfxo;. 
IIoMa Ttstpa^sade. 
To s'/di efta yjzpdy p.ou va 

<?5; dbiAeucw. 
Et7Ts suysv£xo; xateuit^Off- 

fyopo$. 
Auto etvat Tzpitzov. 
Tt S-sIsts ; 
Tt bpi&Ts; 
25;; 7iccpccx.cu& va /as /as- 

TxxsipiZ-cQs iUvdspcc. 
Xeoyst; TispmoLYiasg. 
25; «y«7:w i? 6/vj; /aou 

xsc/oePias. 
Ka't syw b//.oio);. 
Tl/AVj<7STS /AS p.k THUS TtpO- 

c-Taya'c; aa;. 

E^STS T£7T0TS; Va /AS 7:^0- 

<7Ta|fsT£ ; 
II^offTaf sts tov SoxjIov <7a;. 
ILooa/As'v&i t5; Tipoauyds 

<ra;. 
Ms x5/avsts //sycQyjVTf/r/jv. 
fyOx-JOW/iTzspcnoLrpes, g5; 

Tray5axa>,w. 
n/507xyv-/j(7£TS ix /as'^ou; 

/aou t6v v.pyovTot. , ri tov 

XU/5£0V. 
BsSatOJffiTc' tov ~w; TOV 

sv6op.odp.oa. 
BsSatojTSTe tov 7rw; tov 



Now directly. 

My dear Sir, do me this 

favour. 
I entreat you. 
I conjure you. 
I ask it of you as a favour. 
Oblige me so much. 
Affectionate Expressions. 
My life. 
My dear soul. 
My dear. 
My heart. 
My love. 

7b thank, pay compli- 
ments, and testify re- 
gard. 

I thank you. 

I return you thanks. 

I am much obliged to you. 

I will do it with pleasure. 

With all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

1 am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Yonr most humble servant. 

You are too obliging. 

You take too much trouble. 

I have a pleasure in ser- 
ving you. 

You are obliging and 
kind. 

That is right. 

What is your pleasure? 

What are your commands? 

I beg you will treat m 
freely. 

Without ceremony. 

I love you with all my 
heart. 

And I the same. 

Honour me with your 
commands. 

Have you any commands 
for me? 

Command your servant. 

I wait your commands. 

You do me great honour. 

Not so much ceremony, I 
beg. 

Present my respects to the 
gentleman, or his lord- 
ship. 

Assure him of my remem- 
brance. 

Assure him of my friend- 
ship. 



Asv Sslu IsLMst va tou to 

S^TTW. 
UpOGyVVYjp.XrU P-M £ k T^V 

dpyovrLccccv. 
IIvjyatvsTs sp.7ipoodd x«i 

c5; «xo)ou0w. 
H % svpu /.cddrb xpiosp.ov. 
h£su/jw to stvat /aou. 
Ms xa/AV£TS va svr pinup-cit 

/as Toa; Towa; ftlofpo- 

ci/vuis 7a;. 
0s')i£T£ Xo£7tov va xa//.w 

Au'av dxpsiOTYizee; 
Tizdyw sp-izpOadd <?£a va 

ffa; UTraxouaco. 
Afa va xa/AW tvjv TxpoGray^v 

sag. 
Asv ayanw Tocsa; ■nzpaioi- 

vj7s;. 
Asv elp-ui ts^s£w; rcepi- 

7TO£V3T£XO;. 

Auto slva£ to y.otir,Tepav. 

T6(70V TO y.O&YITSpGV. 

E^STsXoyov, s^sts (?£xa£ov. 

Afa va /3s£a£w<7v); , va dp- 
vr)6v}i, va uyyxaTavsya-/];, 
xt)i. 

Etva£ dl-/)6ivbv , stva£ dlr r 

OcGTXTOV. 

Ata va <j5; smw tvjv a>/j- 

0s£av. 
6'vtw;, st^t) s2va£. 
tlo'fo; dp-'fLSdllei; 
Asv s£va£7Toaw; dp.<pi6o"kici. 

To 7T£7TSU&), tJIv TO 7T£- 
ffTSUW. 

As'yw to va£. 

As'yco to o^£. 

BaX/w aT£/v)//.a ot£ stva£. 

BaMwGTE'p/yj/Aa ot£ o^Evstvaf 

ST?VJ. 

Nai, //a t/)v tcigtw p.ou. 

El$ t/)v auvs£07j(7£v aaow. 

Ma tv?v ^wvjv Atoy. 

Naf, ff5; dp.vvoi. 

25; o//.vyw w<jav Ttp.fip.ivos 

dvOponzos- 
25; <5/Avyw 27iavw s?; t/jv 

T£/AVJV /Aoy. 
ntffTSytJSTS' /AS. 

H/A7To^w va a5; to /3sSa£w- 

<7W. 

H0s>a /3a>vj arix^p-cc o, ri 

S-s>sts cftaToyro. 
M/j Ty/vj xat asTSf'^sff^s 

( >;w/:aTsysTS ) ; 
Op.tlstTs /as t5 6'Xa era; ; 
Eyw a5; 6/a£Xw /as Ta o),a 

/Aoy, xat era; >,eyw t/jv 

a>yi0s£av. 
Eyw <:5; to /3s6a£wv«. 



I will not fail to tell him 
of it. 

My compliments to her 
ladyship. 

Go before and I will fol- 
low you. 

I well know my duty. 

I know my situation. 

You confound me with so 
much civility. 

Would you have me then 
be guilty of an incivility? 
I go before to obey you. 

To comply with your com- 
mand. 

I do not like so much ce- 
remony. 

I am not at all ceremo- 
nious. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 

To affirm, deny, consent, 
etc. 

It is true, it is very true. 

To tell you the truth. 

Really it is so. 
Who doubts it ? 
There is no doubt. 
I believe it, I do not be- 
lieve it. 
I say yes. 
I say no. 
I wager it is. 
I wager it is not so. 

Yes, by my faith. 

In conscience. 

By my life. 

Yes, I swear it to you. 

I swear to you as an ho- 
nest man. 

I swear to you on my ho- 
nour. 

Believe me. 

I can assure you of it. 

I would lay what bet you 

please on this. 
You jest by chance? 

Do you speak seriously? 
I speak seriously to you, 
and tell you the truth. 



assure you 



of it. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



or 



To i-npoftfrevaere. 
To i-izciiyjZi. 

Hpinst va axg T:c77zi><J0). 
kv-b Sky ctvat dsSbvaxov. 
To loi-bvxs efosupie xaXqv 

copxv. 
Kxlx, xaAa. 

Asv slvat a/y;0£vdv. 

Eiva£ \psvSsg. 

Ah shxiriTior-gx-b xjto. 



'JJzVOOg, /«« «7i«- 



E?vai 

E'/w xTZzi^ouo-jy (iycopx- 

TzXJX). 

Eydi to zinxSix vx ysXexaco. 
TvJ xlrfizix. 

Mk XpzGzl AXXX TTOAAa. 

2v/x.xrxysvoi slg touto. 

Af'ow t^v livfpdv ^aoy. 

A*v avT£OT£xo//a: sigTOJUTd. 

E'ipxi aupfwvos, £* fftyt- 
pwvou. 

Eyw t5£v fo'Xw. 

E"/w ivavricavopuxi elg TOU- 
TO. 

Aix va Gvp.Sovlz'jdyg, va 
uroyxoS^g, ri va a-osa- 
ot'7^4-. 

Tt itpsTzei vx y.v.pupev ; 

Tt 3-5 y.xp.oyj.zV ; 

Ti p.k oopoo'jAzVzTs va xa- 
, P»3 

OTTOtOV TyCOTTOV S-£'),0//£V 

psTxysipiuQ-Tj r,p.Cig; 
kg xafjLCopsy st§»j. 
Etvat xxk/itzpo-j iyu va — 
ZzxOyjts bYiyov. 
Asv jj'0gX§» g!va£ xahqTspov 

va ; 

Eyw xyx~ovGX y.xl-sjTspx. 
Qilszs xxfJLecxcdrfrspaixv— 

AjJVJffSTS ps. 

Av -rjp.ovJ zlg tov tottov sa?, 

eyw 

Elvaj to ufeov. 



You have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you. 
I must believe you. 
This is not impossible. 
Then it is very -well. 

Well, weD. 
It is not true. 
It is false. 

There is nothing of this. 
It is a falsehood, an im- 
posture. 
I was in joke. 

I said it to laugh. 
Indeed. % 

It pleases me much. 
I agree with vou. 
I give my assent. 
I do not oppose this. 
I agree. 

I will not. 

I object to this. 

To consult, consider, or 
resolve. 

What ought we to do ? 
What shall -we do ? 
What do you advise me 

to do ? 
What part shall we take? 

Let us do this. 

It is better that I 

Wait a little. 

Would it not be better 

that ? 

I wish it were better. 

You will do better if 

Let me go. 

If I were in your place , 

It is the same. 



The reader by the specimens below ivill be enabled to 
compare the modern with the ancient tongue. 

PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST JOHN'S 
GOSPEL. 

Niov. AuQsvTixov. 

KspaA. a. KspdcA. a. 

1. EISttjv or.pyrfi yjtov 1. EN xpyq >|v "kayeg, 

b \6yog- xai b Aoyog^TOv xai 6 \6yog v\v ~pbg tov 

pjsxat ®zOv~ xai Qabg yftov Qsbv, xai <ds.bg /jv 6 \6yog. 
6 \oyog. 

1. Etoutos/jtsv stsT^v 2. OutOj ijjv sv &p%$ 

xpyjc* pexx Qsov. r.pbg tov ©sov. 



3. OAa [fa Ttpayparct] 
Six. piaou to j [Adyo:/) iyl- 
Vvjffav, y.xlyoip'ig ocutov §h> 
sytvs xav£va etzi eyive. 

4. Et; au-TOV Jffev £&»§■ 

Xai V) ^CJV-y 7J70V TO JJ»S TWV 
XvOptATTOiV. 

5. Rat to pws s?s t/;v 
ffXGTtav oiyysi, xai vj axo- 
Tta <?sv T2 zarikoi. 

6. E'/jvcV sv«s oivdpa- 
~ og x~zO"zx)<<j.i-Jog x~b tov 
©sov, to ovou.a tow Iwav- 



3. Havra Si oujtov hyi- 
vsto' xai X^pig oujtov 
iyi-JzTO oOSs Iv, "/s'70- 

4. Ev auTW ?oj-,7 -^v, xai 
zj ^ojvj fy to aw; twv av- 
dpcaTZcav. 

5. Kat TO CW5 £V T0 

G/.ozix zzhzi, xai -/j cxoTt'a 
avTo oj xarsXafisv. 

6. Ey£VsTO xvOpomog 
«KscTa"A//.s'vos —ayoa 05oy, 
ovopx ajTw Iwavvvjs. 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS FROM 
MELETICS. 

OPXOMEN02, xoivoisSx/snrou, iro>ts 7roTS7rXou<7Zoj- 

Ta.T-/]xai hyupuzxTr,, izpozspov y.xaoj pz-j-t\ BotcoTJxat 
A(?^va£, s?s tvjv 6-ocav -^tov 6 Na6s twv XactTWv, sts 

TOV OuO'tOV £-),V7^&)VOV T£')>7} Ot Qr,?X~LOl, OUTtVOg TO 

zex'jog Avsaxufdr) ~oxk bizb twv AcTraiayxeay. Erravy;- 
yiipi^ov sig xjzr^ t/jv ttoXiv TzXajir^ict, toO btzoiou 
dy&vog evpov z-iypx-pxg iv cr^Axig evSov zo t j y.-ri- 
aSevzog vxou £-' dvopxrt Tvjj ©sotoxou , urro tow 

TZpWZOG-.xdxpiO'J AsOVTO,-, £77 1 TWV SsCffl^SCdV Baj£- 

Xst'ou, As'ovtos, xat RwvoTavTtvou, iyoitoxg ojtws" ev 
/xkv 7-^ //.ta X.3CVWJ. 

« OiVa ivtxwv tov aywva twv XaatTvjatwv. 

2a).-£5T^5. 
Mvjvts A-o/>wvtoy Lvzioyzbg x~b Mxixvopov. 

ErjpvZ. 
Z'jYO.og Zaitkov Tixoiog. 

P'aiwooj. 
Nou//yjv£05 Nou/xvjvtou \.0r t vx~iog. 

TLoir-^g eTTWV. 
kpr t -/ix.g \r,p.o/.lsojg Qr,Sx1og. 

A^/vjT^g. 
AttoX/oo'otOs A-o».oo l oToy K^VJ?. 

Ay)>wcTic. 
Poo^-rro; Poo£7r-0'j kpysiog. 

Kida.pi(JTYJg. 
Qx-nxg A-ol'koSoTO'j tov^xvioj klo\zi>g x~b \s.vp.r t g, 

KidxpcoSog. 
yr,'/:r-ciog Hxppz'JiG/.oj Kx^yrpo-Jiog. 

TpxyuSog. 
i.~~o/.pcy--/)g kpisTop.i-JO'jg PoSiog. 

Kwy.wSig. 
Kx~X\iG7px7og E^axiarou ©rfixlog. 

Tloir-vjg 2x.-zi)por;. 
kp-Yfjixg Ay)uox/£OUs ©^oalos. 

TrroxcfT^;. 
Aoipddsog Atopodiou Tctpocvrivos. 

IIotvjTyjs Tpaynduav. 
2o^ox).v5s SojJOxXsousA'flvjvatos. 

T-ox^tTr;,. 
KxSLciyog QzoScopov ®r,§x~iog. 

IIOtvjT^s Kwy.wc?£wv. 
kkiixvSpog &piaroiv.og Advpcuog. 

Y~0/.piTr,g. 
AttoXos Attk^ou kdrpcuog. 



02 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oios iviy.uv tov v^pr^ov dywva twv o/xod^wwv. 

naidaj a^r)(7To:j. 
AfOxX/fc Ka»£//.r;dbu Qrfixloq. 

Hxivcc? tysp.6vxq. 
2T/5aTivo, Etfvt'xou &r 4 §cuog. 

A£OX>yfc Ra>>£//y;d"bu Q-/]§x~iog. 

Avopxs v\yspbvx$. 
Pdd£7r7TOs PodmTTOi; ApyslOi. 

Tpxyoidbs. 
lTtitox.pxTr t $ AptGTOpsvovs p'cc?£o$. 

Rw//.w<?ds. 
KaMtffT/Ja-ros E^xxsgtov &-rj§xiog. 
Tx Itziv'iy.ix. 

Rw/AwdVwv II(3£v;tv7s. 
Als^xvdpos ApiGTiuvog, Adr,vxiog. 

Ev & 7VJ £T£y5a OCO/JIXWs- 

Mvaac'vw xpyovTOs d.yuvod stLovtos, zb 
X-xptTsiTiov, slixpiGTOi TrdvTwv ci Ti/2'd^ Ivixwcav to- 

2a).7T£yxTds. 
$t>£vos *£>ev« ABdvsioq. 

Kapovq". 
Eipuixg Zw.pxTiog &si§stos. 

nostras. 
Mv'jGTCop Mr,aropoi *wxa£suc. 

P'a'i'Eud'og. 

R/5KTWV R>£WVOg 0i£Oc£(5j. 

A0^££T«5. 

Il£^£y£V££5 H' pxy.lsioxo Koy^fxvjvo J. 

Av)ia£uc?05. 
Aa/jivjV£TOs P>auxw Apyiog. 

KldxpiGTKS. 

Yup.oc.Tpos A//a/ww At5>£0j a7:o Mou/jf'vag. 

T^ayasuods. 
Aoxlumodojpos UouBsxo TxpxvTivbg. 

Ktopy.svdos. 
NfxdaT^aTOj •tuXocT/caTW ®si6sio$. 

To: imvUstx Km pu.su 0*6$. 
Evxpxos H/socJoTW R©^wv£uj.» 
Ev d'Mw /£#w. 

«Mu/5£^05 IIoAUX^KTOUs \Xp(hwp.Oq, d^OyETWVOS CCV- 

dpsaai ^o/sayEEaavTEj VExdcavTsg Swvvgov dvs8r,Y.xv 
tL{j.covo$ dpyovTO^ X'jYLovto; xlsog aoovTog <x\y.i- 

fft?£V£(5?.» 

Ev krspu AiSco. 

« 3-uvd^w dc/ovTog, psivbg Sstlovdio), dpx^ wg 

E'JSwXf dpysSx.pu <puy.s~ix 05 drre'Jwxa d7TO Tag 

oouyypxepoi Ttsdx twv Tto\spdpx<^v, xvj twv xaTO- 
7TTdwv, dvsldpsvos Tag Gouyypxfbii Tag y.ipsvxg 7rd,o 

svfpbvx, X/5 cjl&xv y/] 7ixgiy.1sT.v y.iqTipb- 

p?.i$ov c;wxs£as, xvj SxpOTSkslv IjGtixpu, xvj dlovvGOv 
Xvpuvslx x«t to tydfiGpx tw dd/*w. 



M^7»^r>rn 



$uvxpx<>> cipxovTog, p.sivb; dlxlxopsvito F d/svwv, 
TroXux),££i55 Txpix; d/is'dwxs sv6a>\v dpxsSxpu pwxsu 
d7TO t«s aovyypct'fSi tq xxtx\vt:ov x«t to ^d'fiGpx 
tw dxpoi, dvskbpsvo$ Tag oouyypapws Taj x.ipsvu$ 



nxp oto'fikov, xvj sv-fpovx <po)y.sxq. Ry) Trac dmvitGiov 
y.xptGodojpo) y-ripuvsx, xvj "kuGiSxpov dxpoTsliog tte'^k 
twv Tio'ksp.dpxtov , xrj twv xgctotttkwv. 

« ApxovTO$ iv ipyop.svo S-uva^/w, pisvbs A^ctlxo- 
//.£V£w, Iv c?£ F e>aT£yj MoVO£Tao 'Apxsldca psivas 
Txpdzoi. Oao^oyx EvSuYv F iXcm'v}, xy; tvj 7ro>£ 
^/ 5 /f°/ / -V£WV. E7T££!?v7 y.sx.0 plat-/] E'J'Sw>os ttcz/5 tvj; 7:0- 
)>£<35 to fovscov xnav x<xt t«5 bpoloylx? zdg zsOhag 
Suvdpxc>> tipxovTOz, p.stvbs $silov6lca, xvj cjt op££- 
^£tvj avrw £T£ ou^kv 7ray9 t«v ~6liv, d)X d.Tisxt Tcdvzo. 
izspi 7TavT6s, xvj dTrodsdoocvO 1 t/j ttc)>£ to £^;ovt£5 t«j 
bpoloyixg, si p.kv izorl dsdop.ivov y^povov Eu'SwXu ^tt t 

VOpid-S F £T£ d.Tl STTCLpCC /3oU£7(7£ (70UV £'7T7TUJ ^£0! XaT£7jg 

Ff x^ct^ -npoSdrus <70uv yjyuj x_sik'c*)s dpy\ tw ^ovw o 
£V£auTO> 6 //.£toc 6irjy.py_Qv tipy_0'JTC(. ipxop.s-jiog d.izo- 
ypccfzcdsi ds Eu/3eo)i9v xxt' £V£auTov Exasrov Trd^ tov 
Tocpiocv X57 tov vo ; </wv av t«t£ xai>//aTa twv upoSv.- 

TWV, X3fJ TWV yjyWV, X'/J TWV /30HWV, XVJ TWV i'TTTTWV, X'/J 

x«T£va daocpy.iwv SUr, to TalstSos p-ldnoypdfSGO wd^ 
—liovoc twv ysypx.pp.svuv h tvj Qouyy^ps'iGi r\ dVxarfj 

V) TO SVVOplOV E'J'/3w>0V 0J5£Q££ )i£g 

twv ipxopsvluv dpyou pl'ji 7srrxpdx.ovrx 

EiJQoiku xa6' ExacTOv £V£ajTov, xvjtoxov yspszoi Cp%x~ 

pxg Taj //-v« 5 - £xa<JTa; xaTa /A£lva 

tov xyj sp.itpxy.ros e'ctw tov spxop.svtov 

xai t« ll'vjj." 

Ev d'XXofg YiQois. 

"kvoSupx aiivfopov yxlps» N0KYE2. "Ra^^TTETOV 
dpydpiyos, xai xklxi. » Ev ovOspix iniypxfri Wov 
tovov, >i -vsvp.w x is vj//££5 btzoypxyopsv , oi Tia- 
)i«£0£ izpoasypxfov. Rod t« e|"vjs. 



The following is the prospectus of a translation of 
Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, Mar- 
marotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 

EIAH2I2 TYl"IOrPA*lRH. 
riyoos Toug £v y^oyivas xai ft\s\'kf]vxs. 

OSOI ££j fiiSXix Tlxvto$xt:x svTpvfCxjiv, -}\lsbpouv 
7to<70v ££va£ to ^^ff£//ov tvj5 icTopf'ag' dV a'Jrvjj ydyO 
l%z\ipi<;y.sTxi r\Tz\iov p.sp.xy.pi><jp.svri 7Zx\xi6tt,s, y.xi 
S-scopovvTxi w; gv xaTduT/Dw v?'^, Tipd£si$ y.xi SiOLyr,- 
asig 7ToY>wv xat ctixvopuv s9v6>v xai y£vwv, wv tvjv 

p.v/ipr,V OtSGOJGXTO Xai SlXZOlGSl V] iGTOpiY.r, A£^*/V7<7£5 £££ 

at*wva tov «7ravTa. 

Mf'a tstoix s~iGTr}pri slvxi £uarroxT-/)TOj, xai iv 
TauTw tofslip:/}, rj y.ps~iTTOV si—slv dvxy/.xix' dixTi 
Ioltzov -hpsls povoivxT'tp UGT-povpsOx, pr, ^supovTsg 
outs tx; d.pyx.s twv irpoybvMV px$ , Tibdsv tzqts y.xi 

7TWS S'jpsQ'OGXV S ? S Tdj TtXTpiSxs pX$, O'JTS TXYJdy, TX 
Y.xTop9ojpxTXY.xl TY t v Sioixr,ofo twv ; Av IpOrt-SjGtopSV 
tovs dX)\cysvsT.5, r)%si>povv vd pxs ddiGOW byi p.ovov 
iGTopty.&$ t-qv d.pyr,v xai ttjv upboBov twv T^poybvotv 

p.Xg, dVkXY.xl TOTTOypO'flY.Gi$ p&S d^f/VOUV T«S S-£(7££S 

twv TixTpiSoiV pxg, xai oiov£i ysipxyvtyoX yivbp.svoi 
ps tou? ysoiypxftxoxjg twv 7T£vaxa?, //as Xr/ouv, £d A w 
stvaf at A0v5va£, £<?w yj 1rjxdpTf\, IxsT. at 0/j§a£, Toaa 



GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



io3 



errata rj pilicc drzsxsi *1 pi-%- irzcLpxi-OL una tvjv a'Myjv. 
TouTog tixoSoprps tvjv fj.ia.-J tzoIlv, ixzlvos tvjv 6ill-/]v, 
xai t^. UpoaiTi av zpoirriGtopzv aurous Toug //vj E)i- 
>vjv«i ^st/saywyoug /Aag, 7ro0£v iTra/saxtvvjflyjsav va 
iZepeuv/jaovv £px<*s rbaov tzuIcllus, avu7rooTo}wg //ag 
clTZoxpivovrcLi ps auTOUg Toug layout. " Ka0wg 6 e"x 
Zxudiccs Avcy.xcLpGt;, av c?sv inspiipxsro t« Travey- 
fpbGuvcc sVslva xlip.xroL rrjs Elludos, av Skv kp.<po- 
pslro t« a|£6j//ara, ra /)#■/} xai Toug vop.ous twv 
EMvjvwv, tffleAs /^stvyj 2xu0vjg xat to ovopcL xat to 
Trpxyy.cc- ourco xcll 6 yj/jtSTScos iocrpbg , av c$5V i/*av-r 
0avs toc tou Itztz ox parous, Skv iSuva.ro va Tzpox^p'h^ 
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CAINTO III. 



Note 1. Stanza xviii. 
In u pride of place* here last the eagle flew. 
« Pride of place» is a term of falconry, and means the 
highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, etc. 

An eagle tcwering in his pride of place. 
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. 

Note 2. Stanza xx. 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
See the famous Song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
— The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, 
by Mr Denman : 

« With myrtle my sword will I wreathe, » etc. 

Note 3. Stanza xxi. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
ball was given at Brussels. 

Notes 4 and 5. Stanza xxvi. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. 
Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
« gentle Lochiel» of the « forty-five. » 

Note 6. Stanza xxvii. 
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of 
the « forest of Ardennes, » famous in Boiardo's Orlando, 
and immortal in Shakspeare's « As you like it.» It is 
also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful 
defence by the Germans against the Roman encroach- 



io4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ments. — I have ventured to adopt the name connected 
with nohler associations than those of mere slaughter. 

Note 7. Stanza xxx. 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 

My guide from Mont St Jean over the field seemed 
intelligent and accurate. The place where Major Howard 
fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there 
was a third cut down, or shivered in the hattle) which 
stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side. 
— Beneath these he died and was huried. The hody 
has since been removed to England. A small hollow 
for the present marks where it lay, but will probably 
soon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the 
grain is. 

After pointing out the different spots where Picton 
and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
« Here Major Howard lay; I was near him when wound- 
ed. » I told him my relationship, and he seemed then 
still more anxious to point out the particular spot and 
circumstances. The place is one of the most marked 
in the field from the peculiarity of the two trees above- 
mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, 
Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, 
Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon ; and the field around 
Mont St Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little 
but a better cause, and that indefinable but impressive 
halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated 
spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except 
perhaps the last mentioned. 

Note 8. Stanza xxxiv. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 

The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vide 
Tacitus, Histor. 1. v, 7. 

Note 9. Stanza xli. 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 

The great error of Napoleon, « if we have writ our 
annals true,» was a continued obtrusion on mankind 
of his want of all community of feeling for or with 
them ; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than 
the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious 
tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as 
individuals : and the single expression which he is said 
to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian 
winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over 
a fire, « This is pleasanter than Moscow, » would pro- 
bably alienate more favour from his cause than the 
destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 

Note 10. Stanza xlviii. 

What want these outlaws conquerors should have ? 

u What wants that knave 

That a king should have?» 

was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- 
strong and his followers in full accoutrements. — See the 
Ballad. 

Note 11. Song, stanza i. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels. 
The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sum- 
mit of « the Seven Mountains,^) over the Rhine banks ; 



it is in ruins, and connected with some singular tradi- 
tions : it is the first in view on the road from Bonn, 
but on the opposite side of the river; on this bank, 
nearly facing it, are the remains of another called the 
Jew's Castle, and a large cross commemorative of the 
murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles 
and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is 
very great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. 

Note 12. Stanza lvii. 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 

The monument of the young and lamented General 
Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the 
last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still 
remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, 
and not required: his name was enough ; France adored., 
and her enemies admired : both wept over him. — His 
funeral was attended by the generals and detachments 
from both armies. In the same grave General Hoche 
is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of tlfe word; 
but though he distinguished himself greatly in battle, 
he had not the good fortune to die there; his death was 
attended by suspicions of poison. 

A separate monument (not over his body, which is 
buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, 
opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits 
was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the 
Rhine. The shape and style are different from that of 
Marceau's, and the inscription more simple and pleas- 
ing : 

« The Army of the Sambre and Jteuse 

to its Commander-in-chief, 

HOCHE.,. 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
among the first of France's earlier generals before 
Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. — He was the 
destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

Note 1 3. Stanza lyiii. 
Here Ehrenbreiistein, with her shatter'd wall. 
Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. « the broad Stone of Honour, » 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- 
mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of 
Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced by fa- 
mine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided by 
surprise. After having seen the fortifications of Gibral- 
tar and Malta, it did not much strike by comparison 
but the situation is commanding. General Marceau be- 
sieged it in vain for some time ; and I slept in a room 
where I was shown a window at which he is said to 
have been standing observing the progress of the siege 
by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below 
it. 

Note 14. Stanza Ixiii. 

Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost. 
The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones di- 
minished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in 
the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record 
of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still 
remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgun- 
dians for ages (all who passed that way removing a bone 
to their own country), and the less justifiable larcenies of 
the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to sell for 
knife-handles, a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed 
by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great re- 
quest. Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



105 



as may have made the quarter of a hero, for which the 
sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer-by might 
have perverted them to worse uses than the careful pre- 
servation which I intend for them. 

Note 1 5. Stanza lxv. 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 
Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

Note 16. Stanza Ixvi. 

And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 

Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 

after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned 

to death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was 

discovered many years ago; — it is thus— - 

Julia Alpinula 

Hiojaceo, 

Infelicis patris infelix proles, 

Deae Aventia; sacerdos. 

Exorare patris necem non potui : 

Male niori in fatis ille erat. 

Vixi Annos XXIII. 

I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names 
and actions which ought not to perish, and to which 
we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of 
conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from 
whence it recurs at length with all the nausea conse- 
quent on such intoxication. 

Note 1 7. Stanza Ixvii. 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. 
This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 
1816), •which even at this distance dazzles mine. 

(July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the 
distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere 
in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my 
boat; the distance of these mountains from their mir- 
ror is sixty miles. 

Note 18. Stanza Ixxi. 

' By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 

The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth 

of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt 

Or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 

Note 19. Stanza Ixxix. 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 
This refers to the account in his «Confessions» of his 
passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of 
St Lambert), and his long walk every morning for the 
sake of the single kiss which was the common saluta- 
tion of French acquaintance. — Rousseau's description 
of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as 
the most passionate, yet not impure description and 
expression of love, that ever kindled into words; which 
after all must be felt, from their very force, to be ina- 
dequate to the delineation : a painting can give no suf- 
ficient idea of the ocean. 

Note p.o. Stanza xci. 
Of earth o'er-gazing mountains. 
It is to be recollected that the most beautiful and 
impressive doctrines of the divine founder of Chris- 
tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the 
Mount. 

To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human 



eloquence, the most effectual and splendid specimens 
were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
dressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero 
spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on 
the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived 
from the difference between what we read of the emo- 
tions then and there produced, and those we ourselves 
experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing 
to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the tumuli, or by 
the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain and 
rivers and Archipelago around you; and another to trim 
your taper over it in a snug library — this I know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines 
(the truth or error of which I presume neither to can- 
vass nor to question), I should venture to ascribe it to 
the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstu- 
died and extemporaneous ei fusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im- 
pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
orisons and prayers wherever they may beat the stated 
hours — of course frequently in the open air, kneeling 
upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of 
a bed or cushion as required) ; the ceremony lasts some 
minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and 
only living in their supplication; nothing can disturb 
them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these 
men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of wor- 
ship, of which I have seen those of almost every per- 
suasion under the sun: including most of our own 
sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, 
the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many 
of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the 
Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of 
their belief and its rites; some of these I had a distant 
view of at Patras, and from what I could make out of 
them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, 
and not very agreeable to a spectator. 

Note 21. Stanza xcii. 
The sky is changed!— and such a change! Oh night. 
The thunder-storms to which these lines refer oc- 
curred on the 1 3th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have 
seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari 
several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 

Note 22. Stanza xcix. 
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought. 

Rousseau's Heloise. Letter 17, part 4. note. — «Ces 
montagnes sont si hautes, qu'une demi-heure apres le 
soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de ses 
rayons; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches 
une belle couleur de rose qu'on apercoit de fort loin.» 
This applies more particularly to the heights over 
Meillerie. 

« J'allai aVevayloger a la Clef, et pendant deux jours 
que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette 
ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, 
et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon roman. 
Je dirois volontiers a ceux qui ont du gout et qui sont 
sensibles: Allez a Vevay — visitez le pays, examinez les 
sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la nature 
n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une 

'4 



o6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Claire, et pour un Saint-Preux; mais ne les y cherchez 
pas.» Les Confessions, livre iv. page 3o6. Lyon, 
1796. 

In July 1816, I made a voyage round the lake of 
Geneva; and as far as my own observations have led 
me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all 
the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his « He- 
loise,» I can safely say, that in this there is no exagge- 
ration. It would be diflicult to see Clarens (with the 
scenes around it, Yevay, Chillon, Boveret, St Gingo, 
Meillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhone), with- 
out being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation 
to the persons and events with which it has been peo- 
pled. But this is not all; the feeling with which all 
around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is 
invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive 
order than the mere sympathy with individual passion; 
it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended 
and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of 
its good and of its glory : it is the great principle of the 
universe, which is there more condensed, but not less 
manifested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a 
part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty 
of the whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
associations would not less have belonged to such 
scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by 
their adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty 
by the selection ; but they have done that for him which 
no human being could do for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail 
from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St 
Gingo during a lake-storm, which added to the magni- 
ficence of all around, although occasionally accompa- 
nied by danger to the boat, which was small and over- 
loaded. It was over this very part of the lake that 
Rousseau has driven the boat of St Preux and Madame 
Wolmar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St Gingo, I found that the 
wind had been sufficiently stroug to blow down some 
line old chesnut trees on the lower part of the moun- 
tains. On the opposite height is a seat called the Cha- 
teau de Clarens. The hills are covered with vineyards, 
and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods; 
one of these was named the « Bosquet de Julie, » and it 
is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by the 
brutal selfishness of the monks of St Bernard (to whom 
the land appertained), that the ground might be inclosed 
into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an execra- 
ble superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point 
out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name 
which consecrated and survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the 
preservation of the « local habitations » he has given to 
«airy nothings." The prior of Great St Bernard has 
cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks 
of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks 
of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The 
road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with 
a remark which I heard made, that « La route vaut 
mieux que les souvenirs." 

Note 23. Stanza cv. 
Lausanne and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes. 
Voltaire and Gibbon. 



Note 24. Stanza cxiii. 
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

« if it be thus, 

For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind." 

Macbeth. 

Note 25. Stanza cxiv. 

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. 
It is said by Rochefoucault that « there is always 
something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
displeasing to them.» 



CANTO IV. 



Note 1. Stanza i. 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 

A palace and a prison on each hand. 
The communication between the Ducal palace and the 
prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gal- 
lery, high above the water, and divided by a stone wall 
into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, called 
« pozzi,» or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the 
palace; and the prisoner, when taken out to die, was 
conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being 
then led back into the other compartment or celi, upon 
the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal through 
which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled 
up; but the passage is still open, and is still known by 
the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under 
the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. 
They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of 
the French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up 
the deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, 
descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, 
half choked by rubbish, to the depth of two storeys 
below the first range. If you are in want of consola- 
tion for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you 
may find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into 
the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places 
of confinement themselves are totally dark. A small 
hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, 
and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. 
A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was the 
only furniture. The conductors tell you that a light 
was not allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, 
two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They 
are directly beneath one another, and respiration is 
somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner 
was found when the republicans descended into these 
hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined 
sixteen years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath 
had left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, 
which are still visible, and may perhaps owe something 
to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to 
have offended against, and others to have belonged to, 
the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but 
from the churches and belfries which they have scratched 
upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a 
specimen of the records prompted by so terrific a soli- 
tude. As nearly as they could be copied by more than 
one pencil, three of them are as follows: 

WON TI FIDAR d' ALCUNO, PENSA e TACI 
SE FUGGIR VUOI DI SPIONI INSID1E e LACCI 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



10 



IL PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 

MA E BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

IACOMO. GRITTI. SCRISSE. 
2. 
UN PARLAR POCO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

i6o5. 

EGO IOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 
3. 
DI CHI MI FIDO GUARDAM1 DIO 
DI CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDERO IO 



LA 



C H . 



RlfA 



The copyist has followed, not corrected the solecisms; 
some of which are, however, not quite so decided, since 
the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only 
need be observed, that Bestemmia and Mangiar may 
be read in the first inscription, which was probably 
written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety 
committed at a funeral: that Cortellarius is the name 
of a parish on terra firma, near the sea: and that the 
last initials evidently are put for Viva la Santa Chiesa 
Kattolica Romana. 

Note 2. Stanza ii. 

She looks a sea Cybele fresh from ocean, 

Rising with her liara of proud towers. 

An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 

has made use of the above image, which would not be 

poetical were it not true : 

« Quo Jit ut qui superne nrbem contempletur, turri- 
tam telluris, imaginem medio oceanojiguratam se putet 
inspicere.» l 

Note 3. Stanza iii. 
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
stanzas, from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the inde- 
pendence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the 
original on one column, and the Venetian variations on 
the other, assungby the boatmen, were once common, 
and are still to be found. The following extract will 
serve to show the difference between the Tuscan epic 
and the «Canta alia Barcariola.» 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto 1' arnii pietose, e 'I capitano 

Che '1 gran sepolcro libero di Crista. 
Molto egli opro col senno, e con la mano, 

Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 

S' armo d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i santi 
Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 

E de Goffredo la immortal braura, 
Che al fin 1' ha libera co slrassia, e dogia 

Del nostro buon Gesu la sepoltura ; 
De me/o mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 

Missier Pluton no 1' ha bu mai paura ; 
Dio 1' ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnal 
Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 

1 Marci Antonii Sabelli, de Venetae Urbis situ, narratio, edit. 
Taurin. 1627, lib. 1. fol. 202. 



Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 71I1 of last January, the author of Childe 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this no- 
tice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom 
was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. The former 
placed himself at the prow, the latter at the stern of the 
boat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazetta, they 
began to sing, and continued their exercise until we 
arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other 
essays, the death of Clorinda,and the palace of Armida; 
and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the 
two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his compa- 
nion, told us that he could translate the original, He 
added, that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, 
but had not spirits (niorbin was the word he used) to 
learn anymore, or to singwhathe already knew: a man 
must have idle time on his hands to acquire or to repeat, 
and, said the poor fellow, « look at my clothes and at 
me; I am starving.)) This speech was more affecting 
than his performance, which habit alone can make at- 
tractive. The reck stive was shrill, screaming, and mo- 
notonous; and the gondolier behind assisted his voice 
by holding his hand to one side of his mouth. The 
carpenter used a quiet action, which he evidently en- 
deavoured to restrain, but was too much interested 
in his subject altogether to repress. From these men 
we learnt that singing is not confined lo the gondoliers, 
and that, although the chaunt is seldom, if ever, vo- 
luntary, there are still several amongst the lower classes 
who are acquainted with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers 
to row and sing at the same time. Although the verses of 
the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet 
much music upon the Venetian canals; and upon holi- 
days, those strangers who are not near or informed 
enough todistinguish ihewords, may fancy that mauyof 
the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The 
writer of some remarks which appeared in the Curio- 
sities of Literature must excuse his being twice quoted; 
for, with the exception of some phrases a little too am- 
bitious and extravagant, he has furnished a very exact, 
as well as agreeable description. 

«In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- 
sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chaunt them 
with a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present 
on the decline : — at least, after taking some pains, I could 
find no more than two persons who delivered to me in 
this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the 
late Mr Berry once chaunted to me a passage in Tasso 
in the manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

« There are always two concerned, who alternately 
sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by 
Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no 
melodious movement, and is a sort of medium between 
the canto fermo and the canto ligurato; it approaches 
to the former by recitativical declamation, and to the 
latter by passages and course, by which one syllable is 
detained and embellished. 

« I entered a gondola by moonlight; one singer placed 
himself forwards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded 
to St Georgio. One began the song : when he had ended 
his~strophe, the other look up the lay, and so continued 
the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the 
same notes invariably returned, but according to the 



io8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a 
smaller stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes on 
another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of 
the whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

« On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and 
screaming: they seemed, in the manner of all rude un- 
civilized men, to make the excelleucy of their singing 
in the force of their voice: one seemed desirous of con- 
quering the other by the strength of his lungs; and so 
far from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as 
I was in the box of the gondola), I found myself in a 
very unpleasant situation. 

s< My companion, to whom I communicated this cir- 
cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of 
his countrymen, assured me that this singing was very 
delightful when heard at a distance. Accordingly we 
got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the 
gondola, while the other went to the distance of some 
hundred paces. They now began to sing against one 
another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. 
I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to 
the other. 

« Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong, 
declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the 
ear from far, and called forth the attention; the quickly 
succeeding transitions, which necessarily required to be 
sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains suc- 
ceeding the vociferation of emotion or of pain. The 
other, who listened attentively, immediately began where 
the former left off, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe 
required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the 
splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few 
gondolas, that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- 
creased the striking peculiarity of the scene; and, amidst 
all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the cha« 
racter of this wonderful harmony. 

k It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, 
lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these ca- 
nals, waiting for his company or for a fare, the tire- 
someness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by 
the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He 
often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends 
itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror; and, 
as all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in 
the midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rat- 
tling of carriages, no noise of foot-passengers : a silent 
gondola glides nowand then by him, of which the splash- 
ing of the oars is scarcely to be heard. 

« At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- 
known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the 
two strangers ; he becomes the responsive echo to the for- 
mer, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard the 
other. Byatacitconventionthey alternate verse for verse; 
though the song should last the whole night through, they 
entertain themselves without fatigue; the hearers, who 
are passing between the two, take part in the amusement. 

«This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion, 
who otherwise was not a very delicately organised person, 
said quite unexpectedly: 'e singolare come quel canto 
intenerisce, e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio.' 



« I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of 
islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns,' 
particularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma- 
lamocca and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works 
of Tasso, to these and similar tunes. 

«They have the custom, when their husbands are 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings 
and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with 
great violence, till each of them can distinguish the 
responses of her own husband at a distance." 2 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes 
of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. 
The city itself can occasionally furnish respectable au- 
diences for two and even three opera-houses at a time; 
and there are few events in private life that do not call 
forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a physician 
or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman preach his 
maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an operation, 
would a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, 
are you to be congratulated on a marriage or a birth, or 
a law-suit, the Muses are iuvoked to furnish the same 
number of syllables, and the individual triumphs blaze 
abroad in virgin white or party-coloured placards on 
half the corners of the capital. The last curtsey of a 
favourite «primadonna» brings down a shower of these 
poetical tributes from those upper regions, from which, 
in our theatres, nothing but cupids and snow-storms are 
accustomed to descend. There is a poetry in the very 
life of a Venetian, which, in its common course, is va- 
ried with those surprises and changes so recommendable 
in fiction, but so different from the sober monotony of 
northern existence ; amusements are raised into duties, 
duties are softened into amusements, and every object 
being considered as equally making a part of the bu- 
siness of life, is announced and performed with the 
same earnest indifference and gay assiduity. The Ve- 
netian gazette constantly closes its columns with the 
following triple advertisement; 
Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the Church of St =— 



Theatres. 
St Moses, opera. 

St Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
St Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe their 
consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it worthy 
of a more respectable niche than between poetry and 
the playhouse. 

Note 4- Stanza x. 

Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 

The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the stran- 
gers who praised the memory of her son. 

Note 5. Stanza xi. 
St Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand. ~ 
The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the In- 
valides, but the gospel which supported the paw that 
is now on a level with the other foot. The horses, also, 
are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, 
and are, as before, half hidden under the porch win- 
dow of St Mark's Church. 

1 The writer meant Lido, which is no', a long row of islands, but 
a long island — lit'us, the shore. 

2 Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p, i56, edit. 1807 ; and Appen- 
dix xxix. 10 Black's Life of Tasso. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



109 



Their history, after a deperate struggle, has been sa- 
tisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of 
Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold Ci- 
cognara, would have given them a Roman extraction, 
and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. 
But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, 
at last and for ever, the pretension of his countrymen 
to this noble production. ' Mr Mustoxidi has not been 
left without a reply,- but, as yet, he has received no an- 
swer. It should seem that the horses are irrevocably 
Chian, and were transferred to Constantinople by The- 
odosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite play of the 
Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best speci- 
mens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable volume of 
inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. Seve- 
ral were prepared for the recovered horses. It is to be 
hoped the best was not selected, when the following 
words were ranged in gold letters above the cathedral 
porch : 

QUATUOR . EQUORUM . SIGNA . A . VENETIS . BYZANTIO . 

CAPTA . AD . TEMP . D . MAR . A . R . S . MCCIV . POSITA . 

QVM, . HOSTILIS . CUPIDITAS . A . MDCCCIII . ABSTULERAT . 

FRANC . I . IMP . PACIS . ORBI . DXTM . TROPH^UM . A . 
MDCCCXV . VICTOR . REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be per- 
mitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in 
transporting the horses from Constantinople was at least 
equal to that of the French in carrying them to Paris, 
and that it would have been more prudent to have avoid- 
ed all allusions to either robbery. An apostolic prince 
should, perhaps, have objected to affixing, over the 
principal entrance of a metropolitan church, an in- 
scription having a reference to any other triumphs than 
those of religion. Nothing less than the pacification of 
the world can excuse such a solecism. 

Note 6. Stanza xii. 
Tbe Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt. 

After many vain efforts on the part of the Ita-lians 
entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make him- 
self absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisal- 
pine dominions, the bloody struggles of four-and-twenty 
years were happily brought to a close in the city of Ve- 
nice. The articles of a treaty had been previously 
agreed upon between Pope Alexander III and Barba- 
rossa, and the former, having received a safe-conduct, 
had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in com- 
pany with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the 
consuls of the Lombard league. There still remained, 
however, many points to adjust, and for several days 
the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the emperor 
had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the ca- 
pital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted 
upon immediately conducting him to the city. The 
Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards Treviso. 
The Pope himself was apprehensive of some disaster if 
Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, but was re- 
assured by the prudence and address of Sebastian Ziani, 
the Doge. Several embassies passed between Chioza 

1 Sui quattro cavalli della Basilica di S. Marco in Venezia. Lettera 
diAndrea Mustoxidi Gorcirese. Padora, perBettoni e compagni, 1816. 



and the capital, until, at last, the emperor relaxing 
somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside his leonine fe- 
rocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb.» * 

On Saturday the 2 3d of July, in the year 11 77, six 
Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
Early the next morning the Pope, accompanied by the 
Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy, 
whom he had recalled from the main land, together 
with a great concourse of people, repaired from the pa- 
triarchal palace to Saint Mark's Church, and solemnly 
absolved the emperor and his partisans from the ex- 
communication pronounced against him. The chan- 
cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, re- 
nounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. 
Immediately the doge, with a great suite both of the 
clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting 
on Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from the Lido to 
the capital. The emperor descended from the galley 
at the quay of the Piazzetta. The doge, the patriarch, 
his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice, with 
their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn 
procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. 
Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the basi- 
lica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by the pa- 
triarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and bishops of 
Lombardy, all of them in state, and clothed in their 
church robes. Frederic approached — « moved by the 
Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person of 
Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, and throw- 
ing off his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length 
at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his 
eyes, raised him benignantly from the ground, kissed 
him, blessed him; and immediately the Germans of the 
train sang, with a loud voice, 'We praise thee, O Lord.' 
The emperor then taking the Pope by the right hand, 
led him to the church, and, having received his bene- 
diction, returned to the ducal palace. » 2 The ceremony 
of humiliation was repeated the next day. The Pope 
himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint 
Mark's. The emperor again laid aside his imperial 
mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated as 
verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding 
the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting the 
gospel, preached to the people. The emperor put him- 
self close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening; and 
the pontiff, touched by this mark of his attention, for 
he knew that Frederic did not understand a word he 
said, commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate 
the Latin discourse into the German tongue. The creed 
was then chauuted. Frederic made his oblation, and 
kissed the Pope's feet, and, mass being over, led him by 
the hand to his white horse. He held the stirrup, and 
would have led the horse's rein to the water side, had 
not the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
formance, and affectionately dismissed him with his 
benediction. Such is the substance of the account left 
by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present at the 
ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by every sub- 
sequent narration. It would be not worth so minute 
a record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well as. 

' o Ouibus a«ditus, imperator, operante eo, qui corda principum 
sicutvultet quando Tult humiliter inclinat, leonina feritate de- 
posita, ovinam mansuetudinem induit.* Bomualdi Salernitani, 
Cbronicon. apud Script. Rer. Ital. torn. VII. p. 229. 

2 Ibid. p. 23 1. 



I IO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



of superstition. The states of Lombardy owed to it the 
confirmation of their privileges; and Alexander had 
reason to thank the Almighty, who had enabled an in- 
firm, unarmed old man to subdue a terrible and potent 
sovereign. • 

Note 7. Stanza xii. 
Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the high- 
lander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee ! Henry Dandolo, 
when elected doge, in 1 192, was eighty-five years of age. 
When he commanded the Venetians at the taking of 
Constantinople he was consequently ninety-seven years 
old. At this age he annexed the fourth and a half of 
the whole empire of Romania, 2 for so the Roman em- 
pire was then called, to the title and to the territories of 
the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire 
were preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of 
Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above desig- 
nation in the year 1 357. 3 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: 
two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied toge- 
ther, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their 
higher yards to the walls. The doge was one of the 
first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said 
the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sybil : 
«A gathering together of the powerful shall be made 
amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind leader : 
they shall beset the goat — they shall profane Ryzan- 
tium — they shall blacken her buildings — her spoils 
shall be dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they 
have measured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine 
inches, and a half.»4 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having 
reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
was buried in the church of St Sophia, at Constantino- 
ple. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name 
of the rebel apothecary who received the doge's sword, 
and annihilated the ancient government in 1796-7, was 
Dandolo. 

Note 8. Stanza xiii. 

But is not Doria's menace come to pass 1 
Are they not bridled? 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 
armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 

1 See the above-cited Bomuald of Salerno. In a second sermon 
which Alexander preached, on the first day of August, before the 
emperor, he compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to 
the forgiving father. 

2 Mr Gibbon has omitted the important fe, and has written Bomani 
instead of BornamV : — Decline and Fall, chap. lxi. note 9. But the 
title acquired by Dandolo runs thus in the chronicle of his namesake, 
the Doge Andrew Dandolo : — Ducali tilulo addidit, « Quarlce partis ct 
dimidice totius imperii Romanics.* And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii, 
pars xxxvii. ap. Script. Ber. Ital. torn. xii. page 33i . And the Bo- 
manice is observed in the subsequent acts of the doges. Indeed the 
continental possessions of the Greek empire in Europe were then 
generally known by the uame of Romania, and that appellation is 
still seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to Thrace. 

3 See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid. p. 498. Mr 
Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, who says, 
uil qual titolo si uso fin al Doge Giovanni Dolfino. » See Vite de' 
Duchi de Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. torn. xxii. 53o, 641. 

4 « Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, oaeco praeduce, 
Hircum ambigent, Byzantium prophanabunt, aedificia denigrabunt ; I 
spolia dispergentur, Hircus novus balabit usque dum liv pedes et 
ix pollices et semis, praimensuratl discurrant.» Chronicon. ibid, 
pari; xxxiv. 



Signor of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the ut- 
most despair. An embassy was sent to the conquerors 
with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to prescribe 
what terms they pleased, and leave to Venice oniy her 
independence. The Prince of Padua was inclined to 
listen to these proposals, but the Genoese, who, after 
the victory at Pola, had shouted, « to Venice, to Venice, 
and long live St George, » determined to annihilate their 
rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, re- 
turned this answer to the suppliants: «On God's faith, 
gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace from the 
Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until 
we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses 
of yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist St 
Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you 
quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of our com- 
mune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, that you 
have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have 
them: take them back; for, in a few days hence, I 
shall come and let them out of prison myself, both 
these and all the others. » ' In fact, the Genoese did 
advance as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the 
capital; but their own danger and the pride of their 
enemies gave courage to the Venetians, who made pro- 
digious efforts, and many individual sacrifices, all of 
them carefully recorded by their historians. Vettor 
Pisani was put at the head of thirty -four galleys. The 
Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retired to 
Chioza in October; but they again threatened Venice, 
which was reduced to extremities. At this time, the 
1 st of January, i38o, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been 
cruising on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. 
The Venetians were now strong enough to besiege the 
Genoese. Doria was killed on the 2 2d of January by a 
stone bullet a hundred and ninety-five pounds weight, 
discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza 
was then closely invested; five thousand auxiliaries, 
amongst whom were some English Condottieri, com- 
manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. 
The Genoese, in their turn, prayed for conditions, but 
none were granted until, at last, they surrendered at 
discretion; and, on the 24th of June, i38o, the Doge 
Contarini made his triumphal entry into Chioza. Four 
thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, many smaller 
vessels and barks, with all the ammunition and arms, 
and outfit of the expedition, fell into the hands of the 
conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable an- 
swer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their domi- 
nion to the city of Venice. An account of these trans- 
actions is found in a work called the War of Chioza, 
written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the 
time. 2 

Note 9. Stanza xiv. 
The u Planter of the Lion.» 
Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St Mark, the 



1 u Alia fe de Dio, Signori Veneziani, non averete mai pace dal 
Signore di Padoua, ne dal nostro comuue di Genova, se primiera- 
mente non mettemo le briglie a quelli vostri cavalli sfrenati, che 
sono su la Bezadel Vostro Evangelista S. Marco. Infrenati che gli 
avremo, vi faremo stare in buona pace. E questa e la intenzione 
nostra, e del nostro comuue. Questi miei fratelli Genovesi, che 
avete menali con voi per donarci, non li voglio; rimanetegli in 
dietro perche io intendo da qui a pochi giorni venirgli a riscuoter 
dalle vostre prigioni, e loro e gli altri.n 

2 « Chronica della guerra di Chioza, » etc., Script. Rer. Ital. torn, 
xv, pp. 690, to 804. 



CHJLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



l i i 



standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word 
Pantaloon — Pianta-leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 

Note 10. Stanza xv. 
Thin streets and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 

The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand 
souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was 
no more than about one hundred and three thousand, 
and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the official 
employments, which were to be the unexhausted source 
of Venetian grandeur, have both expired. 1 Most of the 
patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the de- 
molition of seventy-two, during the last two years, ex- 
pressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many 
remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks 
of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or 
are sinking, in the general decay. Of the « gentil uomo 
Veneto,» the name is still known, and that is all. He 
is but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and 
kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is que- 
rulous. Whatever may have been the vices of the re- 
public, and although the natural term of its existence 
may be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected 
from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the 
subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
to rally round the standard of St Mark, as when it was 
for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice and the 
treachery of the few patricians who recommended the 
fatal neutrality, were confined to the persons of the 
traitors themselves. 

The present race cannot be thought to regret the 
loss of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic go- 
vernment; they think only on their vanished independ- 
ence. They pine away at the remembrance, and on 
this subject suspend for a moment their gay good-hu- 
mour. Venice may be said, in the words of the scrip- 
ture, « to die daily;» and so general and so apparent 
is the decline, as to become painful to a stranger, not 
reconciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring, as it 
were, before his eyes. So artificial a creation, having 
lost that principle which called it into life and sup- 
ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of 
slavery, which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd 
of dependants, and not present the humiliating spec- 
tacle of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires 
to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances; but 
many peculiarities of costume and manner have by 
degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride com- 
mon to all Italians who have been masters, have not 
been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That 
splendour which was a proof and a portion of their 
power, they would not degrade into the trappings 

1 « Nonnullorum e nobilitate immensae sunt opes, adeo ut vix 
a?stimari possint : id quod tribus e rebus oritur, parsimonia, com- 
mercio, atque iis emolumentis, quae e Repub. percipiunt, quae hauc 
ob causam diuturna fore creditur.i— See De Principatibus Italia; 
Tractatus, edit. i63i. 



of their subjection. They retired from the space 
which they had occupied in the eyes of their fellow- 
citizens; their continuance in which would have been 
a symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those 
who suffered by the common misfortune. Those who 
remained in the degraded capital might be said rather 
to haunt the scenes of their departed power, than to 
live in them. The reflection, « who and what enthrals,. > 
will hardly bear a comment from one who is, na- 
tionally, the friend and the ally of the conqueror. 
It may, however, be allowed to say thus much, that, 
to those who wish to recover their independence, any 
masters must be an object of detestation; and it may 
be safely foretold that this unprofitable aversion will 
not have been corrected before Venice shall have sunk 
into the slime of her choked canals. 

Note ii. Stanza xvi. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. 
The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 

Note 12. Stanza xviii. 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 
Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udoipho ; the Ghost- 
seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice; Othello. 

Note 1 3. Stanza xx. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks. 
Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir pecu- 
liar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be 
found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than 
any other mountain tree. 

Note i/f- Stanza xxviii. 
A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er hal-f the lovely heaven. 
The above description may seem fantastical or exag- 
gerated to those who have never seen an oriental or an 
Italian sky; yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient 
delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as 
contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of 
the Brenta near La Mira. 

Note 1 5. Stanza xxx. 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we 
now know as little of Laura as ever. * The discoveries 
of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no 
longer instruct or amuse. 2 We must not, however, 
think that these memoirs are as much a romance as 
Belisarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr 
Beattie, a great name, but a little authority. 3 His "la- 
bours has not been in vain, notwithstanding his « love» 
has, like most other passions, made him ridiculous, i 
The hypothesis which overpowered the struggling Ita- 

* See An historical and critical Essay on the Life and Character of 
Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the 
Abbe de Sade: the first appeared about the year 1784 ; the other is 
inserted in the fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal So- 
ciety of Edinburgh, and both have been incorporated into a work, 
published, under the first title, by Ballantyne in 1810. 

2 Memoires pour la Vie de Petrarque. 

3 Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 106. 

4 Mr Gibbon called his Memoirs u a labour of love,-* (see Decline 
and Fall, cap. Ixs, note 1.) and followed him with confidence and 
delight. The compiler of a very voluminous work must take much 
criticism upon trust ; Mr Gibbon has done so, though not so readily 
as some other authors. 



I 12 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hans, and carried along less interested critics in its 
current, is run out. We have another proof that we 
can never he sure that the paradox, the most singular, 
and therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air, will not give place to the re-established ancient pre- 
judice. 

It seems then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, 
may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
Bastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- 
thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to 
the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited, with- 
in the space of twelve hours; and these deliberate du- 
ties were performed round the carcase of one who died 
of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day 
of her death. These documents, therefore, are too de- 
cisive : they prove, not the fact, but the forgery. Either 
the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. 
The Abbe cites both as incontestably true; the conse- 
quent deduction is inevitable — they are both evidently 
false, * 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty 
virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who 
honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre of 
an honest French passion, and played off for one-and- 
lwenty years her little machinery of alternate favours 
and refusals 2 upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
indeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made 
responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- 
interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian. 3 
It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of 
Petrarch was uot platonic. The happiness which he 
prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely 
not of the mind,4 and something so very real as a mar- 
riage project, with one who has been idly called a 
shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least 
six places of his own sonnets. 5 The love of Petrarch 
was neither platonic nor poetical ; and, if in one passage 
of his works he calls it « amore veemeuteissimo ma 



1 The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr Horace 
Walpole. See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 

2 u Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs 
bien menagee, une femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt-un 
uns, le plus grand poete de son siecle, sans faire la moindre breche 
a son honneur.D Mem. pour la Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Fran- 
cais. The Italian editor of the London edition of Petrarch, who has 
translated Lord Woodbouselee, renders the " femme tendre et sage," 
« raffinata civella.» Riflessioni intorno a Madonna Laura, p. 234, 
vol. iii. ed. 1811. 

3 In a dialogue with St Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura 
as having a body exhausted with repeated ptubs. The old editors 
read and printed perturbationibus ; but M. Capperonier, librarian to 
the French King, in 1762, who saw the MS. in the Paris library, 
made an attestation that u on lit et qu'on doit lire, partibus exhaus- 
tum.n De Sade joined the names of Messrs Boudot and Bejot with 
M. Capperonier, and in the whole discussion on this ptubs, showed 
himself a downright literary rogue. See Riflessioni, etc., p. 267. 
Thomas Aquinas is called in to settle whether Petrarch's mistress 
was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 

4 a Pignialion, quanto lodarti dei 
Dell' immagine tua, se mille volte 
N' avesti quel ch' i' sol uua vorrei.n 

Sonetto 58, Quando giunse a Simon I' alto concetto. 
Le Rime, etc. par. i, pag. 189. edit Ven. 1756. 
5 See Riflessioni, etc. p. 291. 



unico ed onesto,» he confesses, in a letter to a friend, 
that it was guilty and perverse, that it absorbed him 
quite, and mastered his heart. > 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for 
the culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe de Sade 
himself, who certainly would not have been scrupu- 
lously delicate, if he could have proved his descent from 
Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence 
of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the 
poet, we have no security for the innocence, except 
perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us, 
in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his 
fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost 
all recollection and image of any « irregularity. » 2 But 
the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned 
earlier that his thirty-ninth year; and either the me- 
mory or the morality of the poet must have failed him, 
when he forget or was guilty of this slip. 3 The weakest 
argument for the purity of this love has been drawn from 
the permanence of effects, which survived the object of 
his passion. The reflection of M. de la Bastie, that 
virtue alone is capable of making impressions which 
death cannot efface, is one of those which every body 
applauds, and every body finds not to be true, the mo- 
ment he examines his own breast or the records of 
human feeling. 4 Such apophthegms can do nothing for 
Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except with the 
very weak and the very young. He that has made even 
a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage, cannot 
be edified with any thing but truth. What is called 
vindicating the honour of an individual or a nation, is 
the most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing; 
although it will always meet with more applause than 
that sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious 
desire of reducing a great man to the common standard 
of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our 
historian was right in retaining his favourite hypothetic 
salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely saves 
the honour of the still unknown mistress of Petrarch. 5 

Note 16. Stanza xxxi. 
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 
Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return 
from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V at Borne, 
in the year' 1370, and, with the exception of his cele- 
brated visit to Venice in company with Francesco No- 
vello da Carrara, he appears to have passed the four last 
years of his life between that charming solitude and 
Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
July the 19th, in the year 1374, was fouud dead in his 
library chair with his head resting upon a book. The 
chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been 
attached to every thing relative to this great man, from 

1 u Quella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occupava e mi 
regnava nel cuore.n 

2 Azion disonesta, are his words. 

3 " A questa confessione cost sincera diede forse occasione una 
nuovacaduta ch : ei fece.» Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., 10m. v. lib. iv. 
par. ii. pag. 492. 

4 u II n y a que la vertu seule qui soil capable de faire dcs impres- 
sions que la mort n efface pas. » M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in 
the Memoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres for 
1740 and 1761. See also Riflessioni, etc., p. 295. 

5 « And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he 
enjoyed, and might boast of enjoying the nymph of poetry, n Decline 
and Fall, cap. lxx. p. 327. vol. xii. oct. Perhaps the if is here 
meant for although. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



the moment of his death to the present hour, have, it 
may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the 
Shakspeariau memorials of Stratford upon Avon. 

Arqua ( for the last syllable is accented in, pronun- 
ciation, although the analogy of the English language 
has been observed in the verse), is twelve miles from 
Padua, and about three miles on the right of the high 
road to Rovigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. 
After a walk of twenty minutes, across a flat well-wooded 
meadow, you come to a little blue lake, clear but fathom- 
less, and to the foot of a succession of acclivities and 
hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, rich with 
fir and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit-shrub. 
From the banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, 
and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft 
where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly 
inclose the village. The houses are scattered at intervals 
on the steep sides of these summits; and that of the poet 
is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, 
and commanding a view not only of the glowing gar- 
dens in the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide 
plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and willow, 
thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall 
single cypresses, and the spires of towns are seen in the 
distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po and 
the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these volcanic 
hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner 
than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he 
cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red 
marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, and 
preserved from an association with meaner tombs. It 
stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- 
shadowed by four lately-planted laurels. Petrarch's 
fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and 
expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below 
the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, 
with that soft water which was the ancient wealth of 
the Euganean hills. It would be more attractive, were 
it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. 
No other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of 
Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of centuries 
have spared these sequestered valleys, and the only vio- 
lence which has been offered to the ashes of Petrarch 
was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt 
was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and 
one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine through a 
rent which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, 
but has served to identify the poet with the country 
where he was born, but where he would not live. A 
peasant boy of Arqua being asked who Petrarch was, 
replied, « that the people of the parsonage knew all 
about him, but that he only knew that he was a Floren- 
tine." 

Mr Forsyth « was not quite correct in saying, that 
Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once 
quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
Florence on his way from Parma to Piome, and on his 
return in the year 1 35o, and remained there loug enough 
to form some acquaintance with its most distinguished 
inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the 
aversion of the poet for his native country, was eager to 
point out this trivial error in our accomplished traveller, 
whom he knew and respected for an extraordinary 
capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, joined 

1 Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. o5. note, 2nd edit. 



to that engaging simplicity of manners which has 
been so frequently recognized as the surest, though 
it is certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior 
genius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously 
traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is 
shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order 
to decide the ancient controversy between their city and 
the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried 
when seven months old, and remained until his seventh 
year, have designated by a long inscription the spot 
where their great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet has 
been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St Agatha, 
at the cathedral, 1 because he was archdeacon of that 
society, and was only snatched from his intended sepul- 
ture in their church by a foreign death. Another ta- 
blet with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on 
account of his having passed the autumn of i368 in 
that city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political 
condition which has for ages precluded the Italians 
from the criticism of the living, has concentrated their 
attention to the illustration of the dead. 

Note 17. Stanza xxxiv. 
Or, it may be, with demons. 
The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
ness for the temptation of Our Saviour. And our un- 
sullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child to 
complete solitude. 

Note 18. Stanza xxxviii. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
And Boileau, whose rash envy, etc. 
Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso may serve as well as any other specimen to justify 
the opinion given of the harmony of French ve:se. 

A Malherbe, a Racan, preferer Theopbile, 

Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout lor de Yirgile. 

Sat. ix, verse 176. 

The biographer Serassi, 2 out of tenderness to the repu- 
tation either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager 
to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away 
this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the 
Jerusalem to be a « genius sublime, vast, and happily 
born for the higher flights of poetry.» To this we will 
add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, when 

1 D. 0. M. 

Francisco Petrarch® 

Parmensi Archidiacono. 

Parentibus praeclaris genere perantiquo 

Ethices Christiana- scriptori exiuiio 

Romanae lingua rcstiiutori 

Etruscae principi 

Africa? ob carmen hac in uibe peractum regibus acoito 

S. P. O. R. laurea donate 

Tanti Viri 

Jirvenilium juvenis senilium senex 

Studiosissimus 

Comes >"icolaus Canonicus Cicof;narus 

Marmorea proxima ara excitata. 

Ibique condito 
Diva; Janr.ariae cruento corpore 

n. m. p. 

Suffectum 

Sed infra meritum Francisci sepulchro 

Summa hac in ade efferri mandantis 

Si Parma? occumberet 

Extera morte heu nobis erepti. 



2 La vita del Tasso, lib. iii, p. 2S4. torn. 



edit. Bergamo, 
15 



"4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



we examine the whole anecdote as reported by Olivet." 
The sentence pronounced against him by Bohours 2 is 
recorded only to the confusion of the critic, whose pa- 
linodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, and 
would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition which 
the Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan academy, 
who degraded Tasso from all competition with Ariosto, 
below Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such opposition 
must also in some measure be laid to the charge of 
Alphonso, and the court of Ferrara. For Leonard Sal- 
viati, the principal and nearly the sole origin of this 
attack, was, there can be no doubt, 3 influenced by a 
hope to acquire the favour of the House of Este : an 
object which he thought attainable by exalting the repu- 
tation of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then a 
■prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Salviati 
must serve to show the contemporary opinion as to the 
nature of the poet's imprisonment;, and will fill up the 
measure of our indignation at the tyrant jailor. 4 In 
fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not disappointed in the 
reception given to his criticism; he was called to the 
court of Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to heighten 
his claims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his 
sovereign, 5 he was in his turn abandoned, and expired 
in neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans 
was brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
I mentofthe controversy; and if the academy owed its 
first renown to having almost opened with such a para- 
{ dox, G it is probable that, on the other hand, the care 
I of his reputation alleviated rather than aggravated the 
I imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his 
j father and of himself, for both were involved in the 
censure of Salviati, found employment for many of his 
solitary hours, and the captive could have been but little 
embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, amongst 
other delinquencies, he was charged with invidiously 
omitting, in his comparison between France and Italy, 
to make any mention of the cupola of St Maria del Fiore 
at Florence. 7 The late biographer of Ariosto seems as 
if willing to renew the controversy by doubting the 
interpretation of Tasso's self-estimation, 8 related in 
Serassi's life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had before 

1 Histoire dc l'Academie Franchise, depuis i65?_ jusqu'a 1700, par 
l'abbe d'Olivet, p. 181, edit. Amsterdam, 1780. << Mais, ensuite, 
venant a l'usage qu'il a fait de ses talens, j'aurais montre que le 
bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui domine chez lui,» p. 182. Boi- 
leau said he had not changed his opinion : « J'en ai si pea change, 
dit-il,» etc., p. 181 . 

2 La maniere de bien penser dans les ouvrages de l'esprit, sec. 
dial. p. 89. edit. 1692. Pbilantb.es is for Tasso, and says, in the outset, 
« de tous les beaux esprits que l'ltalie a portes, le Tasse est peut-eire 
celui qui pense le plus noblement.n But Bohours seems to speak in 
Eudoxus, who closes with the absurd comparison : « Faites valoir le 
Tasse tant qu'il tous plaira, je m'en tiens pour inoi a Virgile,» etc., 
ib. p. 102. 

3 La Vita, etc. lib. iii, p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may see 
an account of the opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Br Black, 
Life, etc. cap. xvii. vol. ii. 

4 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was 
neither more nor less than a prisoner oj slate, the reader is referred 
to « HisTOr.iCAL Illustrations of tiie IVth Canto of Cuilbis Harold, » 
p. 5, and following. 

5 Orazioni funebri. . . .Belle lodi di Bon Luigi Cardinal d'Este. . . . 
Belle lodi di Bonno Alfonso d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii, pag. 117. 

It was founded in 1682, and the Cruscan answer to Pellegrinol's 
Carp/fa or epica poesia was published in 1 5S4- 

' u Cotanto pote sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima volonta 
contro alia uazion Fiorentina.n La Vita, lib. iii, pp. 96, 98. torn. ii. 

8 La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate Girolamo Baruffaldi 
giuniore, etc., Ferrara, 1807. lib. iii, page 262. See Historical Illus- 
trations, etc. p. 26. 



laid that rivalry at rest,' by showing, that between 
Ariosto and Tasso it is not a question of comparison, 
but of preference. 

Note 19. Stanza xli. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves. 
Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, 
which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, 
and a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event 
has been recorded by a writer of the last century. 2 The 
transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, 
was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- 
lived Italian Republic, and to consecrate the memory of 
the ceremony, the once famous fallen Intrepidi were 
revived and re-formed in the Ariostean academy. 
The large public place through which the procession 
paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. 
The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the 
Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. 3 The mother of 
Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was 
born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with these 
words : « Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8 di 
Seltembre dell' anno i474-" But the Ferrarese make 
light of the accident by which their poet was born 
abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own. They 
possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and his ink- 
stand, and his autographs. 



nc ulius arma, 



Hie currus fuit. 



The house where he lived, the room where he died, are 
designated by his own replaced memorial, 4 and by a 
recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of 
their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from 
a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not 
unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and 
climate to a Boeotian incapacity for all spiritual produc- 
tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the 
detraction, and this supplement to Baretti's Memoirs of 
the illustrious Ferrarese has been considered a trium- 
phant repiy to the « Ouadro Storico Statistico dell' Alta 
Italia. » 

Note 20. Stanza xli. 
For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel, 5 and the white 
vine, 6 were amongst the most approved preservatives 
against lightning : Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Cae- 
sar the second, 7 and Tiberius never failed to wear a 
wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder- 
storm. 8 These superstitions may be received without a 

1 Storia della Lett., etc. lib. iii, torn, vii, par. iii, p. 1220, sect. /f. 

2 u Mi raccontarono que' monaci, ch' essendo caduto 1111 fulmine 
nella loro cbiesa schianto esso dalle tempie la corona di lauro a quell' 
immortale poeta." Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii, p. 176. ed. Milano, 
1802; lettera al Signer Guido Savini Arciiisiocritico, sull' indole di 
un fulmine caduto in Bresda 1' anno '75g. 

3 « Appassionato ammiratore ed inviito apologisla dell' Omero 
Ferrarese." The title was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to the 
confusion of the Tassisti, lib. iii, pp. 262, 265. La Vita di M. L. Ari- 
osto, etc. 

4 u Parva, seJ apta mihi, sed nnlli obnoxia, sed non 
Sordidn, parta meo sed tamen a?re domus." 

5 Aquila, vitu'lus marinus, et laurus, fulmine non feriuntur. Plin. 
Nat. Hist. lib. ii, cap.lv. 

6 Columella, lib. x. 

' Sueton, in Vit. August, cap. xc. 
8 Id. in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. 



CFIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Il5 



sneer in a country where the magical properties of the 
hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; and perhaps the 
reader may not be much surprised to find that a com- 
mentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely 
to disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- 
rius, by mentioning that, a few years before he wrote, 
a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome. « 

Note 21. Stanza xli. 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
by a pitteal, or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, 
with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed, to be 
made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons 
struck dead were thought to be incorruptible ; 2 and a 
stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
man so distinguished by Heaven. 3 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white 
garment, and buried where they fell. The superstition 
was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the 
Lombards believed in the omens furnished by lightning, 
and a Christian priest confesses that by a diabolical skill 
in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke 
of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave him a 
queen and a crown. 4 There was, however, something 
equivocal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants of 
Rome did not always consider propitious; and as the 
fears are likely to last longer than the consolations of 
superstition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age 
of Leo X should have been so much terrified at some 
misinterpreted storms as to require the exhortations of 
a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on thunder and 
lightning to prove the omen favourable : beginning with 
the flash which struck the walls of Velitra and includ- 
ing that which played upon a gate at Florence, and 
foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens. 5 

Note 22. Stanza xlii. 
Italia, oh Italia, etc. 
The two stanzas, XLH and XLIII, are, with the ex- 
ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous 
sonnet of Filicaja : 

u Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte." 

Note 2 3. Stanza xliv. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 

The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 

The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on 

the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and 

now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by 

sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. 

« On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
jEgina towards 3Iegara; I began to contemplate the 
prospect of the countries around me : -Lgina was behind, 
Megara before me; Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the 
left; all which towns, once famous and flourishing, now 
lie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon this 
sight, I could not but think presently within myself, 

1 >'ote 2. p. 4°9- edit. Lugd.-Bat. 1667. 

2 Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terra? motu et Fulminibus, lib. t. cap. si. 

3 OueMg -/.zpy.vvbiS-ls or~Ly.o$ eari, o&sv y.y.i wg S-iis 
Tt'/KTCW. Plut. Sympos., vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 

4 Pauli Diaconi, de gestis Langobard. lib. iii, cap. sir, fo. xv, 
edit. Taurin. 1 J2-. 

5 I. P. Valeriani, de fulminum significaiionibus declamatio, ap. 
Craw. Aniiq. Rom. torn. v. p. 5().>. The declamation is addressed to 
Julian of Jledicis. 



Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves if 
any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whose 
life is yet so short, when the carcases of so many noble 
cities lie here exposed before me in one view.» ' 

Note 24. Stanza xlvi. 



1 Br Middletoa — History of the Life of 31. Tullius Cicero, sect, vii, 
pag. 871, vol. ii. 

2 Be fortunes varietate urbis Romas et de minis ejusdenides-VipLo. 
ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. torn, i, pag. 5oi. 

3 See Jlonim. Ant. ined. par. i, cap. xvii, a. xlii, pag. 5<> ; and 
Storia delle arti, etc. lib. xi, cap. 1. torn, ii, p. 3 1 -i, not. B. 

4 >"omina gentesque Anliqua? Italise, p. 204, edit. oct. 



and we pass 

The skeleton of her Titanic form. 
It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill j 
upon ruined Fiome, breaks forth into the exclamation, 
« Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, iustar 
gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi.» 2 

Note 2 5. Stanza xlix. 

There, too, the goddess loves in stone. 
The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
the lines in the Seasons; and the comparison of the ob- 
ject with the description proves, not only the correct- 
ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of thought, 
and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination of j 
the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be de- 
duced from another hint in the same episode of JMusi- 
clora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of favoured 
love must have been either very primitive, or rather 
deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful nymph 
inform her discreet Damon that in some happier mo- 
ment he might perhaps be the companion of her bath : 

u The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine 
gallery without a word on the JVhetter. It seems strange 
that the character of that disputed statue should not be 
entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one who 
has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Basilica 
of St Paul without the walls, at Tiome, where the whole 
group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in tolerable pre- 
servation ; and the Scythian slave whett'ng the knife 
is represented exactly in the same position as this 
celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked : but 
it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to suppose 
the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an in- 
strument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi 
supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Ju- 
lius Caesar. 'Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of 
the same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agos- 
tiui, and his authority might have been thought con- 
clusive, even if the resemblance did not strike the most 
careless observer. 3 

Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection, 
is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- 
mented upon by 31r Gibbon. 4 Our historian found 
some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- 
tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has 
been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- 
cognized to be a forgery. 

Note 26. Stanza li. 

his eyes to thee upturn, 

Feeding on thy sweet cheek. 

>. . . . Atque oculos paseat uterque suos.i — Ovid. Amor. Hi. ii. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 27. Stanza liv. 
In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie. 
This name will recal the memory, not only of those 
whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her 
whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, 
and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
Corinna is no more; and with her should expire the 
fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too daz- 
zling or too dark a cloud round the march .of genius, 
and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. 
We have her picture embellished or distorted, as friend- 
ship or detraction has held the pencil: the impartial 
portrait was hardly to be expected from a contempo- 
rary. The immediate voice of her survivors will, it is 
probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her 
singular capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, 
and the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead have 
no sex; they can surprise by no new miracles; they 
can confer no privilege : Corinna has ceased to be a 
woman — she is only an author: and it may be foreseen 
that many will repay themselves for former complai- 
sance, by a severity to which the extravagance of pre- 
vious praises may perhaps give the colour of truth. 
The latest posterity, for to the latest posterity they will 
assuredly descend, will have to pronounce upon her 
various productions ; and the longer the vista through 
which they are seen, the more accurately minute "will 
be the object, the more certain the justice of the deci- 
sion. She will enter into that existence in which the 
great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, 
associated in a world of their own, and from that su- 
perior sphere shed their eternal influence for the con- 
trol and consolation of mankind. But the individual 
will gradually disappear as the author is more dis- 
tinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those whom 
the cliarms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, 
attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should 
rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although 
they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more fre- 
quently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
private life. Some one should be found to portray 
the unaffected graces with which she adorned those 
dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties 
is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than 
seen in the outward management, of family inter- 
course; and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of 
genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indiffe- 
rent spectator. Some one should be found, not to 
celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and 
always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the 
ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only 
to give fresh animation to those around her. The mo- 
ther tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved, the 
friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the 
charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten 
by those whom she cherished, protected, and fed. Her 
loss will be mourned the most where she was known 
the best; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and 
more dependants, may be offered the disinterested re- 
gret of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of 
the Leman lake, received his chief satisfaction from 
contemplating the engaging qualities of the incompa- 
rable Corinna. 



Note 28. Stanza liv. 

here repose 

Angelo's, Alfieri's bones. 
Allien is the great name of this age. The Italians, 
without waiting for the hundred years, consider him as 
«a poet good in law.» — His memory is the more dear 
to them because he is the bard of freedom; and be- 
cause, as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance 
from any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, 
and but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was 
observed by Cicero, that no where were the true opi- 
nions and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at 
the theatre. 1 In the autumn of 18 16, a celebrated im- 
provvisatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of 
Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for the sub- 
jects of his poetry was received by a very numerous au- 
dience, for the most part in silence, or with laughter ,- 
but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, 
exclaimed, « The apotheosis of Fictor Alfieri,* the 
whole theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was 
continued for some moments. The lot did not fall on 
Alfieri; and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his 
extemporary common-places on the bombardment of 
Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite 
so much as might be thought from a first view of the 
ceremony; and the police not only takes care to look 
at the papers beforehand, but in case of any prudential 
after-thought, steps in to correct the blindness of 
chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri was received 
with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because it was 
conjectured there would be no opportunity of carrying 
it into effect. 

Note 29. Stanza liv. 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. 

The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- 
tions, which so often leaves us uncertain whether the 
structure before us is an actual depository, or a ceno- 
taph, or a simple memorial not of death but life, lias 
given to the tomb of Machiavelli no information as to 
the place or time of the birth or death, the age or pa- 
rentage, of the historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should 
not have been put above the sentence which alludes 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which 
have passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithet 
proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at Florence. His 
memory was persecuted as his life had been, for an at- 
tachment to liberty, incompatible with the new system 
of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free go- 
vernments of Italy. He was put to the torture for being 
a « libertine,* that is for wishing to restore the re- 
public of Florence ; and such are the undying efforts 

1 The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their 
liberties. Titius, the friend of Antony, presented them with games in 
the theatre of Pompey. They did not suffer the brilliancy of the spec- 
tacle to efface from their memory that the man who furnished them 
with the entertainment had murdered the son of Pompey. They drove 
him from the theatre with curses. The moral sense of a populace, 
spontaneously expressed, is never wrong. Even the soldiers of the 
triumvirs joined in the execration of the citizens, by shouting round 
the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, who had proscribed their bro- 
thers, De Cermanis non de Gallis duo triumphant Consules; a saying 
worth a reeord, were it nothing but a good pun. C. Vell.Paterculi Hist, 
lib. ii, cap. lxxix, pag. 78, edit. Elzevir. 1639. Ibid. lib. ii, cap. lxxvii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



of those who are interested in the perversion not only 
of the nature of actions, hut the meaning of words, 
that what was once patriotism, has hy degrees come to 
signify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old 
meaning of « liberality," which is now another word for 
treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the au- 
thor of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny; and 
to think that the inquisition would condemn his work 
for such a delinquency. The fact is, that Machiavelli, 
as is usual with those against whom no crime can be 
proved, was suspected of and charged with atheism ; 
and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince 
were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inqui- 
sition « benche fosse tardo,» to prohibit the treatise, 
and the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine 
republic as no better than a fool. The father Possevin 
was proved never to have read the book, and the father 
Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- 
ever, that such critics must have objected not to the 
slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency 
of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the last chapter 
of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
tion, from those who are employed once more in 
moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to 
receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
bears for title, « Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Bar- 
baric and concludes with a libertine excitement to the 
future redemption of Italy. « Non si deve adunque 
lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocche la Italia 
vegga dopo tanto tempo apparire un sno redentore. 
Ne posso esprimere con qual amove eifusse ricevuto in 
tutte quelle provincie, cite hanno patito per queste U- 
luvioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, con che os- 
tinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li serre- 
rebbeno ? Quali popoli li negherebbeno la obbedienza 1 
Quale Italiano li ?ieglierebbe V ossequio? AD ognuno 

PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIO.W » 

Note 3o. Stanza Ivii. 
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar. 
Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 
fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, 
and once prior of the republic. When the party of 
Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 
absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII, and was 
condemned to two years' banishment, and to a fine of 
eight thousand lire; on the non-payment of which he 
was further punished by the sequestration of all his 
property. The republic, however, was not content with 
this satisfaction, for in 1772 was discovered in the 
archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the 
eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in i3oa to be 
burnt alive; Talis perveniens ignc comburatur sic quod 
moriatur. The pretext for this judgment was a proof 
of unfair barter, extortions, and illicit gains : Baracte- 
riarum iniquarum, extorsionum, et illicitorum lucro- 
rum, 2 and with such an accusation it is not strange that 
Dante should have always protested his. innocence, and 

1 II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, etc., con la prefazione e le 
note istoriche e politicbe di M. Amelot de la Houssaye, e 1" esame 
e confutazione dell' opera. . . Cosmopoli, 1769. 

2 Storia della Lett. Ital. torn, v, lib. iii, par. 2, p. 448. Tira- 
boschl is incorrect : tbe dates of the three decrees against Dante 
are A. D. i3o2, j3i4, and i3i6. 



the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His appeal to Flo- 
rence was accompanied by another to the Emperor 
Henry; and the death of that sovereign, in i3i3, was the 
signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. He 
had before lingered near Tuscany, with hopes of recal, 
then travelled into the north of Italy, where Verona 
had to boast of his longest residence, and he finally 
settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not 
constant abode until his death. The refusal of the Ve- 
netians to grant him a public audience, on the part of 
Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to have 
been the principal cause of this event, which happened 
in io2i. He was buried (« in sacra minorum a?de),» 
at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected 
by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, pretor 
for that republic which had refused to hear him, again 
restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a 
more magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the 
expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The 
offence or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a 
defeated party, and, as his least favourable biographers 
allege against him, too great a freedom of speech and 
haughtiness of manner. But the next age paid honours 
almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in 
vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
crowned his image in a church, ' and his picture is still 
one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, 
they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not 
being able to dispute about his own birth, contended 
for that of his great poem, and the Florentines thought 
it for their honour to prove that he had finished the 
seventh Canto, before they drove him from his native 
city. Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a 
professorial chair for tbe expounding of his verses, and 
Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
The example was imitated hy Bologna and Pisa, and the 
commentators, if they performed but little service to 
literature, augmented the veneration which beheld a 
sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic 
muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to 
have been distinguished above those of ordinary men; 
the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, 
relates that his mother was warned in a dream of the 
importance of her pregnancy; and it was found, by 
others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his 
precocious passion for that wisdom or theology which, 
under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 
been recognized as a mere mortal production, and at 
the distance of two centuries, when criticism and com- 
petition had sobered the judgment of Italians, Dante 
"vas seriously declared superior to Homer, - and though 
I he preference appeared to some casuists « an heretical 
blasphemy worthy of the flames," the contest was vi- 
gorously maintained for nearly fifty years. In later 
times it was made a question which of the Lords of 
Verona could boast of having patronized him, 3 and the 
jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow Ra- 
venna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even 
the critical Tirahoschi was inclined to believe that the 
poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
' So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only an alle- 
gory. See Storia, etc., ut sup. p. 4^3. 

2 By Varchi in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from 
1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc., torn, vii, lib. iii, par. iii, p. 1280. 

3 Gio. Jacopo Dionisi canonico di Verona. Serie di Aoeddotti, 
n. 2. See Storia, etc., torn, v, lib. i, par. i, p. 24. 



I 1 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Galileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his 
popularity has not always maintained the same level. 
The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a 
model and a study; and Dettinelli one day rebuked his 
pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete- 
extravagances of the Commedia. The present genera- 
tion, having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of 
Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, and the 
Dantcggiare of the northern Italians is thought even 
indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to 
the life and writings of this great poet, which has not 
as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the cele- 
brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect; 
and it is not to be regretted that this national work 
has been reserved for one so devoted to his country 
and the cause of truth. 

Note 3 1. Stanza lvii. 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore: 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed, etc. 
The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb, if he was not 
buried, at Liternum, whither he had retired to volun- 
tary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, 
and the story of an inscription upon it, Ingraia Patria, 
having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 
an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 
lived there. 1 

In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo apprilla. 2 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to 
republics; and it seems to be forgotten, that, for one 
instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a 
people have often repented — a monarch seldom or 
never. Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, 
a short story may show the difference between even 
an aristocracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisaui, having been defeated in 1 3 54 at Porto- 
longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
tribunal was content with the sentence of imprison- 
ment. Whilst Pisaui was suffering this unmerited dis- 
grace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital, 3 was, by 
the assistance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into 
the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that 
disaster, the great bell of St Mark's tower tolled to 
arms, and the people and the soldiery of the galleys 
were summoned to the repulse of the approaching 
enemy; but they protested they would not move a 
step, unless Pisani were liberated, and placed at their 
head. The great council was instantly assembled : the 
prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea 
Contarini, informed him of the demands of the people 
and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
safety was reposed on his efforts, and who implored 
him to forget the indignities he had endured in her 
service. « I have submitted, » replied the magnanimous 



1 Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist. lib. 
xsxyiii. Livy reports that some said he was buried at Liternum. 
others at Rome. lb. cap. lv. 

2 Trionfo della Castita. 

3 Sje note to Stanza XIII. 



republican, «I have submitted to your deliberations 
without complaint; I have supported patiently the pains 
of imprisonment, for they were inflicted at your com- 
mand: this is no lime to inquire whether I deserved 
them — the good of the republic may have seemed to 
require it, and that which the republic resolves is always 
resolved wisely. Behold me ready -to lay down my life 
for the preservation of my country.)) Pisani was 
appointed generalissimo, and, by his exertions, in 
conjunction with those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians 
soon recovered the ascendancy over their maritime 
rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to their 
citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boast- 
ed equality before the laws, which an ancient Greek 
writer « considered the great distinctive mark between 
his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights 
of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
scope of the old democracies. The world may have not 
yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, 
in which the distinction between the liberty of former 
states, and the signification attached to that word by the 
happier constitution of England, is ingeniously deve- 
loped. The Italians, however, when they had ceased to 
be free, still looked back with a sigh upon those times of 
turbulence, when every citizen might rise to a share of 
sovereign power, and have never been taught fully to 
appreciate the repose of a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, 
when Francis Maria II, Duke of Rovero, proposed the 
question, « which was preferable, the republic or the 
principality — the perfect and not durable, or the less 
perfect and not so liable to change, » replied, « that our 
happiness is to be measured by its quality, not by its 
duration; and that he preferred to live for one day like 
a man, than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, 
or a stone. » This was thought, and called a mag- 
nificent answer, down to the last days of Italian ser- 
vitude. 2 

Note 32. Stanza lvii. 

and the crown 

Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 

The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe- 
trarch's short visit to their city, in i35o, to revoke the 
decree which confiscated the property of his father, 
who had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. 
His crown did not dazzle them ; but when, in the next 
year, they were in want of his assistance in the formation 
of their university, they repented of their injustice, and 
Boccaccio was sent to Padua to intreat the laureat to 
conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native 
country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all 
classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the op- 
tion of the book and the science he might condescend 
to expound : they called him the glory of his country, 
who was dear, and would be dearer to them; and they 
added, that if there was any thing unpleasing in their 
letter, he ought to return amongst them, were it only to 

' The Greek boasted that he was l(jOVO/J.OX.—See the last chap- 
ter of the first book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 

2 o E intorno alia magnified risposta," etc. Serassi, Vila del 
Tasso, lib. iii, pag. 149, torn, ii, edit. 2, Bergamo. 



GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



JI 9 



correct their style. 1 Petrarch seemed at first to listen to 
the flattery and to the intrcaties of his friend, hut he did 
not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 
Note 33. Stanza lviii. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 

His dust. 
Coccaccio -was buried iu the church of St Michael and 
St James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, 
which was by some supposed the place of his birth. 
There he passed the latter part of his life in a course of 
laborious study, which shortened his existence; and 
there might his ashes have been secure, if not of honour, 
at least of repose. But the « hyaena brgots» of Certaldo 
tore up the tomb-stone of Boccaccio, and ejected it from 
the holy precincts of St Michael and St James. The oc- 
casion, and, it may be hoped, the excuse of this eject- 
ment, was the making of a new floor for the church: 
but the fact is, that the tomb-stone was taken up and 
thrown aside at the bottom of the building. Ignorance 
may share the sin with bigotry. It would be painful to 
relate such an exception to the devotion of the Italians 
for their great names, could it not be accompanied by a 
trait more honourably conformable to the general cha- 
racter of the nation. The principal person of the district, 
the last branch of the house of Medicis, afforded that 
protection to the memory of the insulted dead which 
her best ancestors had dispensed upon all contemporary 
merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the tomb-stone 
of Boccaccio from the neglect in which it had some time 
•lain, and found for it an honourable elevation in her own 
mansion. She has done more: the house in which the 
poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, and 
is falling to ruin over the head of one indifferent to the 
name of its former tenant. It consists of two or three 
little chambers, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II 
affixed an inscription. This house she has taken mea- 
sures to purchase, and proposes to devote to it that care 
and consideration which are attached to the cradle and 
to the roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boc- 
caccio; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony 
in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the 
first, if not the first, to allure the science and the poetry 
of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; — who not only invented 
a new style, but founded, or certainly fixed, a new lan- 
guage; who, besides the esteem of every polite court of 
Europe, was thought worthy of employment by the pre- 
dominant republic of his own country, and, what is 
more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the life 
of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died in the 
pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might have found 
more consideration than he has met with from the 
priest of Certaldo, and from a late English traveller, who 
strikes off his portrait as an odious, contemptible, li- 
centious writer, whose impure remains should be suf- 
fered to rot without a record. z That English traveller, 

1 « Accingiti innoltre, se ci e lecito ancor 1' esorlarti, a compire 1' 
immortal tua Africa. . . Se ti avviene d'incor.trare nel nostro stile cosa 
che ti dispiaccia, cio debb' essere un altro motivo ad esaudire i desiderj 
della tua patria.n StoriadellaLett. Ital. torn, v, par. i, lib. i, p. 76. 

2 Classical Tour, cap. is, vol. ii, p. 355, edit. 3d. » Of Boccaccio, 
the modem Petronius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more 
odious and more contemptible than its absence; and it imports 
little where the impure remains of a licentious author are consigned 
to their kindred dust. For the same reason the traveller may pass 
unnoticed the torn!) of the malignant Aretino.n 

This dubious phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist from the 



unfortunately for those who have to deplore the loss of 
a very amiable person, is beyond all criticism; but the 
mortality which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr 
Eustace, must not defend Mr Eustace from the impar- 
tial judgment of his successors. Death may canonize 
his virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly pro- 
nounced that he transgressed, not only as an author, 
but as a man, when he evoked the shade of Boccaccio 
in company with that of Aretino, amidst the sepulchres 
of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. As 
far as respects 

« II flagello de' Principi, 
II divin Pietro Aretino." 

it is of little import what censure is passed upon a cox- 
comb who owes his present existence to the above bur- 
lesque character given to him by the poet whose amber 
has preserved «nany other grubs and worms : but to 
classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to excom- 
municate his very ashes, must of itself make us doubt 
of the qualification of the classical tourist for writing 
upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any oilier literature; for 
ignorance on one point may incapacitate an author 
merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a pro- 
fessional prejudice must render him an unsafe director 
on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be 
made what is vulgarly called « a case of conscience, » 
and this poor excuse is all that can be offered for the 
priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. 
It would have answered the purpose to confine the cen- 
sure to the novels of Boccaccio ; and gratitude to that 
source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last 
and most harmonious numbers, might perhaps have re- 
stricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of 
the hundred tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boc- 
caccio might have arrested his exhumation, and it should 
have been recollected and told, that in his old age he 
wrote a letter inlreating his friend to discourage the 
reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and 
for the sake of the author, who would not have an apolo- 
gist always at hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it 
when young, and at the command of his superiors. 1 It 
is neither the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil 
propensities of the reader, which have given to the De- 
cameron alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpe- | 
tual popularity. The establishment of anew and delight- 
ful dialect conferred an immortality on the works in 
which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, 
for the same reason, fated to survive his self-admired 
Africa, the « favourite of kings. » The invariable traits 
of nature and feeling, with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have, doubtless, been the chief source 
of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but Boccaccio, 
as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than 
Petrarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the 



suspicion of another blunder respecting the burial-place of Aretino, 
whose tomb was in the church of St Luke at Venice, and gave rise 
to the famous controversy of which some notice is taken in Bayle. 
A'ow the words of Mr Eustace would lead us to think the tomb was 
at Florence, or at least was to be somewhere recognized. \Yhetherthe 
inscription so much disputed was ever written on ;he tomb cannot now 
be decided, for all memorial of this author has disappeared from 
the church of St Luke, which is now changed into a lamp-wareh juse. 
1 u Non enim ubique est, qui in escusationem meam consuvgens 
dicat, juvenis scripsit, et majoris coactus irnperio.» The letter was 
addressed to Maghinard of Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom of 
Sicily. See Tiraboschi, Storia, etc. torn, v, par. ii, lib. ill, p. 525. 



ed. Ven. 



120 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lover of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the 
Tuscan prose been known only as the author of the De- 
cameron, a considerate writer would have been cautious 
to pronounce a sentence irreconcileable with the un- 
erring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevocable 
value has never been stamped upon any work solely re- 
commended by impurity. 

The truesourceofthe outcry against Boccaccio', which 
began at a very early period, was the choice of his scan- 
dalous personages in the cloisters as well as the courts; 
but the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures 
so unjustly charged upon Queen Theodelinda, whilst the 
priesthood cried shame upon the debauches drawn from 
the convent and the hermitage ; and, most probably, for 
the opposite reason, namely, that the picture was faithful 
to the life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts, 
usefully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of 
rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappelletto and Marcellinus 
are cited with applause even by the decent Muratori. 1 
The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that 
a new edition of the novels was proposed, of which the 
expurgation consisted in omitting the words « monk » 
.and « nun,» and tacking the immoralities to other 
names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no 
such edition ; but it was not long before the whole of 
Europe had but one opinion of the Decameron ; and the 
absolution of the author seems to have been a point set- 
tled at least a hundred years ago : « On se ferait siffler 
si Ton pretendait convaincre Boccace de n avoir pas ete 
honuete homme, puisqu'il a fait le Decameron. » So said 
one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, that 
ever lived — the very martyr to impartiality. 2 But as this 
information, that in the beginning of the last century 
one would have been hooted at for pretending that Boc- 
caccio was not a good man, may seem to come from 
one of those enemies who are to be suspected, even 
when they make us a present of truth, a more accept- 
able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, 
and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
from the virtuous, the patriotic contemporary, who 
thought one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a 
Latin version from his own pen. « / have remarked 
elsewhere,* says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, « that 
the hook itself has been worried by certain dogs, but 
stoutly defended by your staff and voice. Nor was I 
astonished, for I have had -proof of the vigour of your 
mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccom- 
modating incapable race of mortaU who, whatever 
they either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are 
sure to reprehend in others, and on those occasio7is 
only put on a show of learning atid eloquence, but 
otherwise are entirely dumb.n^ 

It is satisfactory to find that ail the priesthood do not 
resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who 
did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 

1 Dissertazioni sopra le antickita Italiane. Diss, lviii, p. 253. 
torn, iii, edit. Milan, 1751. 

2 Eclaircissement, etc. etc. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the Sup- 
plement to Bayle's Dictionary. 

3 k Anioiadverli alicubi librnm ipsum canum dentibus lacessitum, 
tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaque voce defensum. ~Sec miratus sum : 
nam et vires ingenii tui novi, et scio eipertus esses hominum genus 
insolens et ignavum, qui, quicquid ipsi vel nolunt, vel nes:iunt, 
vel non possunt, in aliis reprehendunt ; ad hoc uniini docti et 
arguti, sed elingues ad reliqua.n Epist. Joan. Boccatio, opp, torn, i, 
p. 540. edit. Basil. 



Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the 16th 
century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the 
laureat, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to 
the equal honours of Dante and of Petrarch. 

Note 34. Stanza lx. 
What is her pyramid of precious stones T 

Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo, and 
expires with his grandson; that stream is pure only at 
the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the 
virtuous republicans of the family, that we visit the 
church of St Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, 
unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mau- 
soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns 
and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of con- 
tempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst 
the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his 
Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici. * It was 
very natural for Corinna 2 to suppose that the statue 
raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de depositi 
was intended for his great namesake ; but the magni- 
ficent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidden 
in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates 
from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral 
peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reign- 
ing families in Italy, our own Sidney has given us a 
glowing, but a faithful picture. « Notwithstanding all 
the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, 
the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and 
Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued populous, 
strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than 
a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign of the 
Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in ten 
of the people of that province. Amongst other things 
it is remarkable, that when Philip the Second of Spain 
gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador 
then at Rome sent him word, that he had given away 
more than 65o,ooo subjects; and it is not believed there 
are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and terri- 
tory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, 
that were then good and populous, are in the like pro- 
portion diminished, and Florence more than any. 
When that city had been long troubled with seditions, 
tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperous, they 
still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII 
of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole 
army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of 
Naples, thought to master them, the people taking arms 
struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to de- 
part upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. 
Machiavel reports, that, in that time, Florence alone, with 
the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that city, 
could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring 
together i35,ooo well-armed men; whereas now that 
city, with all the others in that province, are brought to 
such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and base- 
ness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of their 
own prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were 
assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed 
or destroyed, and the best families sent to seek habita- 
tions in Venice, Genoa, Bome, Naples, and Lucca. This is 
not the effect of war or pestilence; they enjoy a perfect 
peace, and suffer no other plague than the government 

1 Cosmus Medi:es, Dccreto Publico, Pater Parri;e. 

2 Co.inne, liv. xviii, cap. iii, vol. iii, page 248. 



CJ.IILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



12 l 



they are under.' From the usurper Cosmo down to the 
imbecile Gaston, we lookin vain forany of those unmix- 
ed qualities which should raise a patriot to the com- 
mand of his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and 
particularly the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a 
change in the Tuscan character, that the candid Floren- 
tines, in excuse for some imperfections in the philan- 
thropic system of Leopold, arc obliged to confess that 
the sovereign was the only liberal man in his dominions, 
Yet that excellent prince himself had no other notion 
of a national assembly, than of a body to represent the 
wants and wishes, not the will of the people. 

Note 35. Stanza lxiii. 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 

« And such was their mutual animosity, so intent 
were they upon the battle, that tlie earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, 
which turned the course of rapid streams, poured back 
the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very moun- 
tains, was not felt by one of the combatants. » 2 Such 
is the description of Livy. It may he doubted whether 
modern tactics would admit of such an abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mis- 
taken. The traveller from the village under Cortona to 
Casa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has, 
for the first two or three miles, around him, but more 
particularly to the right, that flat land which Hannibal 
laid waste in order to induce the Consul Flaminius to 
move from Arezzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a 
ridge of hills, bending down towards the lake of Thrasi- 
mene, called by Livy « monies Cortonenses,» and now 
named the Gualandra. These hills lie approaches atOs- 
saja, a village which the itineraries pretend to have been 
so denominated from the bones found there: but there 
have been no bones found there, and the battle was fought 
on the other side of the hill. From Ossaja the road begins 
to rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of the 
mountains until the sixty-seventh mile-stone from Flo- 
rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and 
continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen 
below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower close 
upon the water ; and the undulating hills partially cover- 
ed with wood amongst which the road winds, sink by de- 
grees into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than the 
road, down to the right amidst these woody hillocks, 
Hannibal placed his horse, 3 in the jaws of or rather above 
the pass, which was between the lake and the present 
road, and most probably close to Borghetto, just under 
the lowest of the « tumuli. »4 On a summit to the left, 
above the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants 
call « the Tower of Hannibal the Carthaginian.» Arrived 
at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he 
descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale 
inclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the 
Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 



:ct. xxvi, page 208. edit. i-5i 
md Hoadley, one of Mr Hume' 



1 On Government, chap, ii, 
Sidney is, together with Locke 
« despicable * writers. 

2 u Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, ad.o intentus pugna? animus, 
ut eum terra; motum qui multarum urLium Italia; mannas paries 
prostravit, avertitqne eursu ra ; ido amines, mare fluminibus invexit, 

monies lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pugnantium senserit n 

Tit. Liv. lib. xxii, cap. xii. 

3 « Equites ad ipsas fauces saltus, tumulis apte tegentibus, !ocat.» 
T;t. Liv. lib. xxii, cap. iv. 

4 « Uui maxims monies Cortonenses Tbxasimeaus subu." Ibid. 



a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake. 
which obliques to the right, and forms the chord of this 
mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely 
inclosed unless to one who is fairly within the bills. It 
then, indeed, appears « a place made as it were on pur- 
pose for a snare, » « locus insidiis natus.» Borghetto is 
then found to stand in a narrow marshy passclose to the 
hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet at the 
opposite turn of the mountains than through the little 
town of Pasignano, which is pushed into the water by the 
foot of a high rocky acclivity. 1 There is a woody emi- 
nence branching down from the mountains into the up- 
per end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and 
on this stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems 
to allude to Lhis eminence as the one on which Hannibal 
encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Africans and 
Spaniards in a conspicuous position. 2 From this spot he 
dispatched his Balearic and light-armed troops round 
through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive 
unseen, and form an ambush amongst the broken accli- 
vities which the road now passes, and to be ready to act 
upon the left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse 
shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the lake 
near Borghetto at sunset ; and, without sending any spies 
before him, marched through the pass the next morning 
before the day had quite broken, so that he perceived 
nothing of the horse and light troops above and about 
him, and saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in 
front on the hill of Torre. 3 The Consul began to draw 
out his army in the flat, and in the meantime the horse 
in ambush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans Were completely inclosed, having the 
lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre in 
front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed on 
I their left flank, and being prevented from receding by 
1 the cavalry, who, the farther tliev advanced, stopped up 
all the outlet; in the rear. A fog rising from the lake 
j now spread itself over the army of the Consul, but the 
high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different 
corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved 
down from his post on the height. At the same moment 
all his troops on the eminences behind and in the flank 
of Flaminius, rushed forward as it were with one ac- 
cord into the plain. The Romans, who were forming 
their array in the mist, suddenly heard the shouts cf the 
enemy amongst them, on every side ; and, before they 
could fall into their ranks, or draw their swords, or see 
by whom they were attacked, felt at once that they were 
surrounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua- 
landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of 
these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The 
second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called 
« the bloody rivulet ;» and the peasants point out an 
open spot to the left between the « Sanguinetto » and 

1 u Inde colles assurgunt.^ Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. iv. 

2 Tav u.vj v.y-y. npoacoTiov tvjs izopeias loaov ocjtos 
xare^aScTO, xatToOs AiSuag tax tous l6r,px$ e'^mv t~.' 

CCUTOU xaT£7T py.TOT.ioVj'jZ. Hist. lib. iii, cap. S3. The account 
in Polybius is not so easily reconcileable with present appearances as 
that in Livy; he talks of hills to the right and left of the pass and val- 
ley : but when Flaminius entered he had the lake at the right of both. 

3 >A tergo et super caput decepere insidiae." Tit. Liv., etc. 

10' 



122 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the bills, which, they say, was the principal scene of 
slaughter. The other part of the plain is covered with 
thick-set olive trees in corn-grounds, and is no where 
qiite level except near the edge of the lake. It is, 
indeed, most probable that the battle was fought near 
this end of the valley, for the six thousand Romans 
who, at the beginning of the action, broke through the 
enemy, escaped to the summit of an eminence which 
must have been in this quarter, otherwise they would 
have had to traverse the whole plain, and to pierce 
through the main army of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but 
the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general dis- 
persion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon the 
fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, but 
chiefly the plain of the Sauguinetto and the passes of 
the Gualandra, v\ ere strewed with dead. Near some old 
walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet many 
human bones have been repeatedly found, and this has 
J confirmed the pretensions and the name of the « stream 
I of blood.» 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north some 
j painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign 
Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with her native 
Virgil. 1 To the south we hear of Roman names. Near 
Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to the fame of an 
enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian is the only an- 
cient name remembered on the banks of the Perugian 
lake. Flaminius is unknown ; but the postilions on that 
road have been taught to show the very spot where il 
Console Romano was slain. Of all who fought and fell 
in the battle of Thrasimene, the historian himself has, 
besides the generals and Alaharbal, preserved indeed only 
a single name. You overtake the Carthaginian again 
on the same road to Rome. The antiquary, that is, the 
hostler of the post-house at Spoleto, tells you that his 
town repulsed the victorious enemy, and shows you the 
gate still called Porta di Annibale. It is hardly worth 
while to remark that a French travel-writer, well known 
by the name of the President Dupatv, saw Thrasimene 
in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on his 
way from Sienna to Piome. 

Note 36. Stanza lxvi. 

But thou, Clitumnus '. 
No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
temple of the Clitumnus, between Folignoand Spoleto ; 
and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a 
description. For an account of the dilapidation of this 
temple, the reader is referred to Historical Illustrations 
of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 37. Stanza lxxi. 
Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract. 
1 saw the « Cascata del marmore » of Terni twice, at 
different periods; once from the summit of the preci- 
pice, and again from the valley below. The lower view 
is far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one 
only: but in any point of view, either from above or 
below, it is worth all the cascades and torrents of Switz- 
erland put together ; — the Staubach, Reichenbach, 
Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, etc., are rills in compara- 



' About the middle of the Xllth century, the coins of Mantua 
bore on one side the image and figure of Virgil. Zecca d' Italia, 
pi. xvii. i, 6. . . Voyage dans le Milanais, etc., par A. Z. Millin, 
torn, ii, p. 294. Paris, 1S17. 



tive appearance. Of the fall of Schaffhausen I cannot 
speak, not yet having seen it. 

Note 38. Stanza Ixxii. 

An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of Iris, 
the reader may have seen a short account in a note to 
Manfred. The fall looks so much like « the hell of 
waters." that Addison believed the descent to be 
the gulph by which Alecto plunged into the in- 
fernal regions. It is singular enough that two of the 
finest cascades in Europe should be artificial—this of 
the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. The traveller is 
strongly recommended to trace the Velino, at least as 
high as the little lake called Pie di Lup. The Rea- 
tine territory was the Italian Tempe, 1 and the ancient 
naturalist, amongst other beautiful varieties, remark- 
ed the daily rainbows of the lake Velinus. 2 A scholar 
of great name has devoted a treatise to this district 
alone. 3 

Note 3g. Stanza Ixxiii. 
The thundering lauwine. 
In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are 
known by the name of lauwine. 

Note 40. Stanza lxxv. 

1 I abhorr'd 

Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word. 
These stanzas may probably remind the reader of 
Ensign Northerton's remarks — «D — n Homo,» etc., 
but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. 
I wish to express, that we become tired of the task 
before we can comprehend the beauty; that we learn 
by rote before we can get by heart; that the freshness 
is worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage 
deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, 
at an age when we can neither feel nor understand 
the power of compositions which it requires an ac- 
quaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to 
relish or to reason upon. For the same reason we 
never can be aware of the fulness of some of the finest 
passages of Shakspeare (« To be or not to be,» for in- 
stance), from the habit of having them hammered in- 
to us at eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind but 
of memory : so that when we are old enough to en- 
joy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. — 
In some parts of the continent, young persons are 
taught from more common authors, and do not read 
the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do not 
speak on' this point from any pique or aversion to- 
wards the place of my education. I was not a slow, 
though an idle boy; and I believe no one could, or 
can be, more attached to Harrow than I have always 
been, and with reason; — a part of the time passed 
there was the happiest of my life ; and my preceptor 
(theR.ev. Dr Joseph Drury) was the best and worthiest 
friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remem- 
bered but too well, though too late — when I have 
erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when 
I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 

1 uReatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt.* Cicer. Epist. ad Attic. 
xv. lib. it. 

2 u In eodem Iacu nullo non die apparere arcus.» Plin. Hist. 
Hat. lib. ii, cap. lxii. 

3 Aid. Manut. de Reatina urbe agroque, ap. Sallengre Thesaur. 
torn, i, p. 778. 



CI1ILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



123 



record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, 
let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but 
with gratitude and veneration— of one who would more 
gladly boastof having been his pupil, if, by more closely 
following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour 
upon his instructor. 

Note 41 • Stanza Ixxix. 
The Seipios' tomb contains no ashes now. 
For a comment on this and the two following stan- 
zas, the reader may consult Historical Illustrations of 
the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 42. Stanza lxxxii. 
The trebly hundred triumphs: 
Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the num- 
ber of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius : and 
Panvinius by Mr Gibbon and the modern writers. 

Note 43- Stanza Ixxxiii. 
Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, etc. 
Certainly, were it not for these two traits in the life 
of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him 
as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire 
may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have sa- 
tisfied the Piomans, who if they had not respected must 
have destroyed him. .There could be no mean, no di- 
vision of opinion; they must have all thought, like 
Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 
of glory, and that w^hat had been mistaken for pride 
was a real grandeur of soul.' 

Note 44- Stanza lxxxvi. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- 
tory of Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained « his 
crowning mercy» of Worcester; and a few years after, 
on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
fortunate for him, died. 

Note 45. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
And thou, dread statue ! still existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr Gibbon found it 
in the Memorials of Flaminius Vacca, 2 and it may be 
added to his mention of it that Pope Julius III gave 
the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
statue: and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, 
who had prevented the judgment of Solomon from 
being executed upon the image. In a more civilized 
age this statue was exposed to an actual operation: for 
the French, who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the 
Coliseum, resolved that their Caesar should fall at the 
base of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The 
nine foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 
the amphitheatre, and to facilitate its transport suf- 
fered the temporary amputation of its right arm. The 
republican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
restoration; but their accusers do not believe that the 
integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 

1 « Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees de la facon dont je vous 
vois agir. Je croyais que vous aviez de lambition, mais aucun amour 
pour la gloire : je voyais bien que votie ame etait haute ; mais je ne 
soupronnais pas qu'elle flit grande.* — Dialorjuede Sylla et d'Encmte. 

2 Memorie, num. Ivii, pag. 9. ap. Jlontfaucon, Diarinm Italicum. 



love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
true Cesarean ichor in a staiu near the right knee; 
but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood 
but the portrait, and assigned the globe of power ra- 
ther to the first of the emperors than to the last of the 
republican masters of Rome. Winkelmann ' is loth 
to allow an heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the 
Grimani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic ; 
and naked Pioman figures were only very rare, not abso- I 
lutely forbidden. The face accords much better with 
the « hominem integrum et castum et gravem,» 2 than 
with any of the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for 
him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods 
of his life. The pretended likeness to Alexander the 
Great cannot be discerned, but the traits resemble the 
medal of Pompey. 3 The objectionable globe may not 
have been an ill-applied flattery to him who found 
Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the 
Roman empire. It seems that Vinkelmann has made 
a mistake in thinking that no proof of the identity of 
this statue with that which received the bloody sacri- 
fice can be derived from the spot where it was disco- 
vered.4 Flaminius Vacca says sotto una cantina, and 
this cantina is known to have been in the Vicolo de 
Leutari near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding 
exactly to that of the Janus before^ the basilica of 
Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred the j 
statue after the curia was either burnt or taken down. 5 | 
Part of the Pompeian shade, G the portico, existed in 
the beginning of the XVth century, and the atrium 
was still called Satrum. So says Clondus.7 At all 
events, so imposing is the stern majesty of the statue, 
aud so memorable is the story, that the play of the 
imagination leaves no room for the exercise of the 
judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates 
on the spectator with an effect not less powerful than 
truth. 

Note 46. Stanza lxxxviii. 
Aud thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
Ancient Tiome, like modern Sienna, abounded most 
probably with images of the foster-mother of her 
founder; but there were two she-wolves of whom 
history makes particular mention. One of these, of 
brass in ancient work, was seen by Dionysius s at the 
temple of Romulus under the Palatine, and is uni- 
versally believed to be that mentioned by the Latin 
historian, as having been made from the money col- 
lected by a fine on usurers, and as standing under the 
Piuminal fig-tree. 9 The other was that which Cicero <° 
has celebrated both in prose and verse, and which the 

1 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. ix, cap. i, pp. 32i, 322, tom. ii. 

2 Cicer. epist. ad Atticum, xi, 6. 

3 Published by Causeus in his Museum Romanum. 

4 Storia delle arti, etc., ibid. 

5 Sueton. in vit. August, cap. 3i, and in vit. C. J. Caesar, cap. S3. 
Appian says it was burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, 
pag. 224. 

6 » Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra." 

Ovid. Ar. Aman. 

7 Roma Ristaurata, lib. ii, fol. 3i. 

s Xa/./.iX ~oir t <Jsj.'z r J. r.yj.aiy.c ipyv^ia;. Antiq. Rom. 

9 « Ad fieum Ruminalem simulacra infantium conditorum urbis 
sub uberibus lupae posuerunt.* Liv. Hist. lib. s, cap. Ixix. This 
was in the year L\ C. iii, or 4^7. 

i° u Turn statua Nattae, turn simulacra Deorum, Romulusqueet Re- 
mus, cum altrice bellua vi fulminis icticonciderunt." De Divinat. ii, 
20. » Tactus est ille etiam qui banc urbem condidit Romulus, quern 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



historian Dion also records as having suffered the same 
accident as is alluded to by the orator.' The question 
agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now 
in the conservator's palace is that of Livy and Diony- 
sius, or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither one 
nor the other. The earlier writers differ as much as 
the moderns: Lucius Faunus 2 says that it is the one 
alluded to by both, which is impossible, and also by 
Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus^ calls it the 
wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus4 talks of it as the one 
mentioned by Cicero. To him R.ycquius tremblingly 
assents. 5 Nardini is inclined to suppose it may be one 
of the many wolves preserved in ancient Rome; but of 
the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue. 6 Mont- 
faucon7 mentions it as a point without doubt. Of the 
later writers, the decisive Winkelmann 8 proclaims it as 
having been found at the church of St Theodore, 
where, or near where, was the temple of Romulus, and 
consequently makes it the wolf of Dionysius. His au- 
thority is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that 
it was placed, not found, at the Ficus Ruminalis by 
the Comitium, by which he does not seem to allude to 
the church of Saint Theodore. Rycquius was the first 
to make the mistake, and Winkelmann followed Ryc- 
quius. 

inauratum in Capitolio parvum atque Iactantem, uberibus Iupinis 
inhianlem fuisse meministis." In Catilin. iii, 8.* 

u Hie sylvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
Madia, qua? parvos Mavorlis s,emine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigabat, 
Oiias turn cum pueris flaniiuato fulrainis ictu 
Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquit." 
De Gonsulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 
1 Ev ykp tw ■x.y.Tzr l T<A\i'A ckvdpiy.VTsg rk Ttollol unb 
xspocvv&v cuvzxuvziiQrfluv, xai (/.yulp.ara. alloc, rs, 
xcd Ato? i~l y.Lovos idpup.ivov, elxdiv ii tjj lvxaiv/]i 
cjiivirs tw Pw//.&J ica'l ji/vtw Pw/jty/w idpv/iiv/) zixza-/]. 

Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii, pag. 37. edit. Rob. Stepb. i548. He goes on 
to mention that the letters of the columns on which the laws were writ- 
ten were liquified and become d/JLVC^pck. Ml that the Romans did 
was to erect a large statue to Jupiter, looking towards the east: no 
mention is afterwards made of the wolf. This happened in A. U. C. 
68g. The Abate Fea, in noticing this passage of Dion (Storia delle 
arti, etc., torn. 1, p. 202, note x.), says, Non oslante, aggiunge Dione, 
che fosse ben-fermata (the wolf), by which it is clear the Abate trans- 
lated the Xylandro-Leuclavian version, which puts quamvis stabilita 
for the original idpup.ivr], a word that does not mean ben-fermata, 
but only raised, as may be distinctly seen from another passage of the 
same Dion: 'E-Qoulrfi-/] p.kv OVV AypLnTiV.S xcd TOV Av- 
yoVGTOV ivzOciiOu l$pbaOU. Hist. lib. lvi. Dion says that Agrippa 
« wished to raise a statue of Augustus in the Pantheon." 

2 « In eadem porlicu a?nea lupa, cujus uberibus Romulus ac Remus 
laclantes inhiaut, conspicitur : dehaeCiceroetVirgilius semper intel- 
Iexere. Livius hoc signum ab yEdilibus ex pecuniis quibus mulctati 
essent fameratores, positum innuit. Antea in Comitiis ad Ficuni 
Ruminalem, quo loco pueri fuerant e.vpositi locatum pro certo est." 
Luc. Fauni, de Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii, cap. vii, ap. Sallengre, 
torn, i, p. 217. In his XVIIth chapter he repeats that tho statues 
were there, but not that they were found there. 

3 Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v, cap. iv. 

4 Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph, lib. ii, cap. ix. He mentions 
another wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v, cap. xxi. 

5 "Non desuut qui banc ipsam esse putent, quam adpinximus, 
qu;e e comitio in Rasilicam Lateranam, cum nonnullis aliis an.tiqui- 
tatuin reliquiis, atque hinc in Capitolium posteu relala sit, quamvis 
Marlianus antiquam Capitolinam esse maluit aTulliodescriptam, cui 
ut in re nimis dubia, trepide assenlimur." Just. Rycquii de Cupit. 
Roman. Comm. cap. xxiv, pag. 25o. edit. Lugd. Rat. »6g6. 

6 Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v, cap. iv. 

7 u Lupa hodieque in capitolinis prostat axlibus, cum vestigio 
fulminis quo ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn., i, p. 174. 

8 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. iii, cap. iii, sec. ii, note 10. Winkel- 
mann has made a strange blunder in the note, by saying the Ciceronian 
wolf was not in the Capitol, and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 



Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 
he had heard the wolf with the twins was found' near 
the arch of Septimius Severus. The commentator on 
Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that learned 
person, and is incensed at Nardini for not having re- 
marked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck 
with lightning in the Capitol, makes use of the past 
tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does not 
positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by Ci- 
cero, and, if he had, the assumption would not perhaps 
have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate him- 
self is obliged to own that there are marks very like the 
scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the present 
wolf! and to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf seen by 
Dionysius might have been also struck by lightning, or 
otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to 
particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especially 
the first, which his audience remembered to have been 
in the Capitol, as being struck by lightning. In his 
verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and 
that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero 
does not say that the wolf was consumed : and Dion 
only mentions that it fell down, without alluding, as 
the Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, or 
the firmness with which it had been fixed. The whole 
strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument, hangs 
upon the past tense ; which, however, may be some- 
what diminished by remarking that the phrase only 
shows that the statue was not then standing in its for- 
mer position. Winkelmann has observed, that the 
present twins are modern; and it is equally clear that 
there are marks of gilding on the wolf, which might 
therefore be supposed to make part of the ancient 
group. It is known that the sacred images of the Capi- 
tol were not destroyed or even injured by time or acci- 
dent, but were put into certain underground deposito- 
ries called favissce. 2 It may be thought possible that 
the wolf had been so deposited, and had been replaced 
in some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was re- 
built by Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his 
authority, tells, that it was transferred from the Comi- 
tium to the Lateral), and thence brought to the Capitol. 
If it was found near the arch of Severus, it may have 
been one of the images which Orosius 3 says was thrown 
down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the 
city. That it is of very high antiquity the workman- 
ship is a decisive proof ; and that circumstance induced 
Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The 
Capitolinc wolf, however, may have been of the same 
early date as that at the temple of Romulus. Lactan- 
tius4 asserts that, in his time, the Romans worshipped a 
wolf; and it is known that the Lupercalia held out to 

' " Iniesi dire, che 1'ErcoIe di bronzo, che oggi si trova nella sala 
del Campidoglio, fu trovato nel foro Romano appresso 1'arco di Set- 
timio ; e vi fu trovata anche la lupa di brouzo che allatta Romolo e 
Remo, asta nella Loggia de' conservator! ■ » Flam. Vacca. Memorie, 
num. iii, pag. i, ap. Montfaucon, Diar. Ital. torn. i. 

2 Luc. Faun. ibid. 

3 See note to stanza LXX.X in Historical Illustrations. 

4 "Romuli nulrix Lupa honoribus est affecta divinis, et ferrem si 
animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figuram gerit.n Lactam, de falsa reli- 
gione, lib. 1, cap. 20. pag. 101, edit, varior. 1660 ; that is to say, he 
would rather adore a wolf than a prosiiiuto. His commentator has 
observed, that ihe opinion of Livy concerning Laurenlia being figured 
in this wolf was not universal. Strabo thought so. Rycquius is 
wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions the wolf was in iheCapitol 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



125 



a very late period 1 after every other observance of the 
ancient superstition had totally expired. This may ac- 
count for the preservation of the ancient image longer 
than the other early symbols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark that the 
wolf -was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of 
that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lac- 
tantius. The early Christian writers are not to be trusted 
in the charges which they make against the pagans. 
Eusebius accused the Romans to their faces of wor- 
shipping Simon Magus, and raising a statue to him in 
the island of the Tyber. The Romans had probably 
never heard of such a person before, who came, how- 
ever to play a considerable, though scandalous part in 
the church history, and has left several tokens of his 
aerial combat with St Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding 
that an inscription found in this very island of the 
Tyber, showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be a 
certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus, or Fidius. 2 

Even when the worship of the founder of Piome had 
been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humour 
the habits of the good matrons of the city by sending 
them with their sick infants to the church of St Theo- 
dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of 
Romulus. 3 The practice is continued to this day; and 
the site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
tified with that of the temple : so that if the wolf had 
been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there 
would be no doubt of the present statue being that 
seen by Dionysius.4 But Faunas, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking 
of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny; and even 
if he had been remarking where it was found, would 
not have alluded to the church of St Theodore, but to 
a very different place, near which it was then thought 
the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the Comitium; 
that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria 
Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine looking on 
the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
actually dug up, 5 and, perhaps, on the whole, the marks 

1 To A. ft. 496. " Quis credere possil, » says Baronius (Ann.Eccles. 
lorn, viii, pag. 602, in an. 496), uyiguisse adbuc Romas adGelasli 
tempora, qua: fuere aute exordia urbis allata in Italiam Lupercalia '.'» 
Gelasius wrote a letter which occupies four folio pages to Andro- 
machus, the senator, and others to show that the rites should be 
given up. 

2 Eusebius has these words ; xat C/.V§piV.VZl Ttup' VfltV COC 
S-SOS TcT£ ; V-V/TC« , EvrS TiSspt —qtx/jm //.£Ta|u TWV 
ivo ytfvp&v , iyoiv £-iypotp-/]V Pw//.a'c'x/;y Taurvjv, 2c- 
p.UVL diot ZayXTG). Eccles. Hist. lib. ii, cap. siii, p. 40. Justin 
Martyr had told the story before; but Baronius himself was obliged 
to detect this fable. See Nardiui Roma Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 

3 u In essa jjli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' giuochi 
Lupercali istituiti iu onore di Romolo, iuirodussero l'uso di porlarvi 
Bambini oppressi da iufermita occulte, accio si liberino per l'in- 
tercessioue di questo Santo, come di contiuuo si sperimenla.n 
Rione xiu Ripa, aceurata e succinta descrizione, etc., di Roma 
Moderna dell' Ab. Ridolf. Venuii, \ : M. 

•' Nardiui, lib. v, cap. ii, convicts Pomponius La?tus crassi erroris, 
in putting the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore; 
but as Livy says the wolf was at the Ficus Ruminalis, and Mony- 
sitis at the temple of Romulus, he is obliged (cap. iv) to own that 
the two were close together, as well as the Lupercal cave, shaded, 
as it were, by the fig-tree. 

5 a Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis germinabat, sub qua Iupse 
rumam, hoc. est, mammam, docente Varrone, suxerant olim Romulus 
et Remus ; non procul a templo hodieD. MarireLiberatricis appellate 
iibiforsan inventa uobilis ilia aenea stalua Iupa? geniiuos puerulos 



of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argu- 
ment in favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf than 
any that can be adduced for the contrary opinion. At 
any rate, it is reasonably selected in the text of the poem 
as one of the most interesting relics of the ancient city, 1 
and is certainly the figure, if not the very animal to 
which Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses: 
u Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludere pendentes pueros et lambere matreni 
Impavidos : illam tereti cervice reflexani 
Mulcere alternos, et fingere corpora lingua." 2 

Note 47- Stanza xc. 

for the Roman's mind 

Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 
It is possible to be a very great man, and to be still 
very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete cha- 
racter, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature 
seems incapable of such extraordinary combinations as 
composed his versatile capacity, which was the wonder 
even of the Pvomans themselves. The first general — 
the only triumphant politician — inferior to none in 
eloquence— comparable to any in the attainments of 
wisdom, in an age made up of the greatest commanders, 
statesmen, orators, and philosophers, that ever appeared 
in the world — an author who composed a perfect speci- 
men of military annals in his travelling-carriage — at 
one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing 
a treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good say- 
ings — fighting 3 and making love at the same moment, 
and willing to abandon both his empire and his mistress 
for a sight of the fouutains of the Nile. Such did Julius 
Caesar appear to his contemporaries, and to those of 
the subsequent ages who were the most inclined to de- 
plore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his sur- 
passing glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial 
countrymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.4 

lactantis, quam hodie in Capitolio videmus.n Olai Borrichi antiqua 
U'rbis Ronuiua; facies, cap. x. See also cap. xii. Ron ichius wrote 
after Nardiui in 1GS7. Ap. Grav. Auliq. Rom. torn, iv, p. 1622. 

1 Bonalus, lib. xi, cap. 18, gives a medal representing on one 
side lie wolf in the same position as that iu the Capitol ; and in 
the reverse the wolf with the head not reverted. It is of the time 
of Antoninus Pius. 

2 /Eneid. viii, 63i. SecDiOJiddleton, inhis Letter from Rome, who 
inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the subject. 

3 In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the hlood 
of Pharsalia in the arms of Cleopatra : 

« Sanguine Tbessalicaa cladis perfusus adulter 
Admisil Vcnerem earis, et miscuit armis.ii 
After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all night to converse 
with the Egyptian sages, and tells Achoreus : 

" Spes sit mihi certa videndi 
Niliacos fontes, belluni civile relinquam :» 
u Sic vclut in mta securi pace trahebant 
Noclis iter medium. » 
Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again and defending every 
position : 

u Sed adest defensor ubique 
Caesar, et hos aditus gladiis, bos ignibus arcet. 

Caeca nocte carinis 

Insiluit Caesar semper feliciter usus 
Prascipiti cursu bellorum et tempore rapto.n 

4 « Jure caesus existimetur,» says Suetonius, after a fair estimation 
of his character, and making use of a phrase which was a formula 
in Livy's time — uMelium jure ca-sum pronuntiavit, etiam si regni 
criniiue iusons fueriti (lib. iv, cap. 48) ; and which was continued 
in the legal judgments pronounced in justifiable homicides, such as 
killing house-breakers. See Sueton. in vit. C. J. Gaesaris, with 
the commentary of Pitiscus, p. 18 J. 



126 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 4$- Stanza xciii. 

What from this barren being do we reap? 

Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. 
« . . . . Omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, nihil 
percipi, nihil sciri posse dixeruut; angustos sensus; 
imbecilles animos, brevia curricula vitae ; in profundo 
veritatem demersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui: deinceps omnia tenebris 
circumfusa esse dixerunt. w 1 The eighteen hundred 
years which have elapsed since Cicero -wrote this have 
not removed any of the imperfections of humanity : 
and the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, 
-without injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a 
poem -written yesterday. 

Note 49- Stanza xcix.^ 

There is a stern round tower of other days. 

Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 
di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 5o. Stanza cii. 

prophetic of the doom 

Heaven gives its favourites — early death. 

Ov oi 3-eot yikouGiv, d~oQ-;riT/.si viog. 

To yup S-avsTiv o;jx odaypbv, dXX' a.lG%p5>g S-avstv. 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetoe Gnomici, p. 23 1. 

edit. 1784. 

Note 5 1. Stanza cvii. 
Behold the Imperial Mount! 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been 
told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any 
but a Roman antiquary. — See Historical Illustrations, 
page 206. 

Note 52. Stanza cviii. 

There is the moral of all human tales; 

'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, 

First freedom, and then glory, etc. 
The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
contemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
sage: « From their railleries of this kind, on the bar- 
barity and misery of our island, one cannot help re- 
flecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of king- 
doms, how Rome, once the mistress of the world, the 
seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, 
ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as 
well as to the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition, 
and religious imposture : while this remote country, 
anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Piomans, 
is become the happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; 
flourishing in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; 
yet running perhaps the same course which Rome it- 
self had run before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; 
from wealth to luxury; from luxury to an impatience 
of discipline, and corruption of morals: till, by a total 
degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for 
destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy op- 
pressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing 
that is valuable, sinks gradually again into its original 
barbarism. » 2 

1 Academ. 1. i3. 

2 The History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect, vi, vol. ii, 
pag. 102. The contrast has been reversed in a late extraordinary in- 
stance. A gentleman was thrown into prison at Paris; efforts were 



Note 53. Stanza ex. 

and apostolic statues climb 

To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. 

The column of Trajan is surmounted by St Peter, 
that of Aurelius by St Paul. See Historical Illustrations 
of the IVth Canto, etc. 

Note 54. Stanza cxi. 

Still we Trajan's name adore. 
Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
princes : < and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one 
possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this em- 
peror. «\Vhen he mounted the throne, » says the histo- 
rian Dion, 2 « he was strong in body, he was vigorous 
in mind; age had impaired none of his faculties; he 
was altogether free from envy and from detraction ; he 
honoured all the good, and he advanced them ; and on 
this account they could not be the objects of his fear 
or of his hate; he never listened to informers; he gave 
not way to his anger; he abstained equally from unfair 
exactions and unjust punishments; he had rather be 
loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he was 
affable with his people, respectful to the senate, and 
universally beloved by both; he inspired none with 
dread but the enemies of his country." 

Note 55. Stanza cxiv. 
Rienzi, last of Romans ! 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited ma- 
nuscripts, relative to this unhappy hero, will be seen in 
the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. 

Note 56. Stanza cxv. 

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto. 3 
He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pave- 
ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria dedi- 

made for his release. The French minister continued to detain him, 
under the pretext that he was not an Englishman, but only a Roman. 
See "Interesting facts relating to Joachim Murat,n pag. i3y. 

1 'i Hujus tautum memoria; delalum est, ut, usque ad nostram aela- 
tem non aliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, felicior. av- 
gvsto. melioe. trajako.i) Eulrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii, cap. v. 

2 Tw ts yup G&p.XTi i'ppoiro xxl tvj <puy7) 

v7X//a£iV, ug p:r]& uizb yrjpug &p£\uvsg6m xat 

out spOovsi, outs xocd-sipEL rtva, olid, xxl T^d.VU 7T«V- 
ras Toug dyxQaug STipx xat spsyukuvs- xxl did touto 

outs iooGfiTQ Ttva aOrwv, outs iplosi e?ta§o- 

Ixig ts yjxwra stiiotsus, xat bpy-7^ yjxlgtx ISouKouto. 

TWV T£ y_p'f\p.V.T(>iV Toiv dXkOiTpLOiV LGX XXI fOVOiV TMV 

aeJty.wv d.izsiysTO : yCkoupevbg ts ouv stc' xuTolg 

p.6cllov 77 Tip.dip.svog syxips, xat T'W TS §Y]p.Oi JJ.ST' 
sntctxstaj GuvsyhsTO, xat ty\ yr,pouGix Gsp-vonpsTiCig 
oipiksr dyxr^rbg ftev tmgv foS-pbg ok p.r t $s'A, nl'/jv 

TZo\spio~ig WV. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixviii, cap. vi, vii ; torn, u, p. 1123, 
1124. edit. Hamb. 1750. 

3 u Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un casaletto, del 
quale ne sono Padroni li Gafarelli, che con questo nome e chiamato 
il luogo; vi e una fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al pre- 
sente si gode, e li Romani vi vanno 1' estate a ricrearsi ; nel pa- 
vimento di essa fonte si legge in un epitaftio essere quella la fonte 
di Egeria, dedicata alle ninfe, e quesla, dice 1' epiiafrio, essere la 
medesima fonte in cui fu convertita.» Memorie, etc., ap. Pfardini, 
pag. i3. He does not give the description. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



12' 



cated to the nymphs. The inscription is not there at this 
day ; but Montfaucon quotes two lines > of Ovid from a 
stone in the Villa Giustiniani, which he seems to think 
had been brought from the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in 
summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by 
the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality 
to the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the 
bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the little pools, 
creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. 
The brook is the Ovidian Almo, whose name and qua- 
lities are loscin the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
itself is called Valle di Caffarelli, from the dukes of 
that name who made over their fountain to the Palla- 
vicini, with sixty rubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbrieius, notwithstanding the generality of his com- 
mentators have supposed the descent of the satirist and 
his friend to have been into the Arician grove, where 
the nymph met Oippolitus, and where she was more 
peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless 
we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, 
who makes that gate travel from its present station, 
where he pretends it was during the reign of the Kings, 
as far as the Arician grove, and then makes it recede 
to its old site with the shrinking city. 2 The tufo, or 
pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- 
stance composing the bank in which the grotto is 
sunk. 

The modern topographers 3 find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and 
a late traveller* has discovered that the cave is restored 
to that simplicity which the poet regretted had been 
exchanged for injudicious ornament. But the headless 
statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
none of the attributes ascribed to it at present visible. 
The nine Muses could hardly have stood in six niches ; 
and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual 
cave. 5 Nothing can be collected from the satirist but 
that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations 
with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the 
Muses ; and that from tiiis spot there was a descent into 

• u In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus in 
quo sculpta haec duo Ovidii carniina sunt 

yEgeria est qua? praebet aquas dea grata Camoenis. 
Ilia IN'umae coujux consiliumque fuit. 
Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeriae fonte, aut ejus vicinia istbuc 
comportatus." Diarium Italic, p. 1 53. 

2 De magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Gr»v. Ant. Rom. torn, iv, p. 1507. 

3 Echinard. Descrizione di Roma e dell' agio Romano corretto dall' 
Abate Venuti in Roma, 1750. They believe in ihe grotto and nymph. 
u Simulacrodi questo fonte, essjndovi scolpitele acque a pie di esso.n 

1 Classical Tour, chap, vi, p. 217. vol. ii. 

5 u Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 
Hie ubi nocturnae Xuma conslituebat arnica?. 
Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judaeis quorum cophinum foenumque supellex. 
Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat sylva Camoenis. 
In vallem Egeriae descendimus, et speluncas 
Dissimiles veri.s : quanto praestantius esset 
Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undas 
Herba, jiec ingenuum violarent marmora tophum. 

Sat. IN. 



the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial caves. 
It is clear that the statues of the Muses made no part 
of the decoration which the satirist thought misplaced 
in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other fanes 
(delubra) to these divinities above the valley, and more- 
over tells us, that they had been ejected to make room 
for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that 
of Bacchus was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini x places them in a poplar grove, 
which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that 
the cave now shown may be one of the « artificial ca- 
verns,)) of which, indeed, there is another a little way 
higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, 
grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian 
to these nymphea in general, and which might send us 
to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of the 
Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- 
lation by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully pre- 
serves the correct plural — 

u Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots; oh how unlike the true!» 

The valley abounds with springs, 2 and over these 
springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- 
bouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said to 
supply them with water ; and she was the nymph of the 
grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
been changed at will. Venuti 3 owns he can see no 
traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and 
Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The 
mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour 
and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the 
temple of the god B.edicu!us, are the antiquary's de- 
spair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that 
emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse 
shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to represent 
the Circus Maximus. !t gives a very good idea of that 
place of exercise. The soil has been but little raised, if 
we may judge from the small cellular structure at the 
end of the Spina, which was probably the chapel of the 
gcd Consus. This cell is half beneath the soil, as it 
must have been in the circus itself, for Dionysius * 
could not be persuaded to believe that this divinity was 
the Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
ground. 

Note 57. Stanza exxvii. 
Yet let us ponder boldly. 
« At all events,» says the author of the Academical 
Questions, « I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
own speculations, that philosophy will regain that esti- 
mation which it ought to possess. The free and phi- 
losophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of ad- 
miration to the world. This was the proud distinction 
of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all their 
glory. Shall we then forget the manly and dignified 

' Lib. iii, cap. iii. 

- u Undique e solo aquae scaturiunt.* Nardini, lib. iii, cap. iii. 

3 Echinard, etc. Cic. cit. pp. 297 — 298. 

4 Antiq. Rom. lib. ii, cap. xxxi. 



a8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in (he language of 
the mother or the nurse about our good old prejudices? 
This is not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was 
not thus that our fathers maintained it in the brilliant 
periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted to 
guard the outworks for a short space of time while 
reason slumbers in the citadel : but if the latter sink 
into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard 
for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, support 
each other ; he who will not reason, is a bigot ; he who 
cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a slave." 
Preface, p. xiv, xv, vol. i. i8o5. 

Note 58. Stanza exxxii. 

great Nemesis! 

Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long. 

We read in Suetonius that Augustus, from a warning 
received in a dream, ' counterfeited once a-year the 
beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace, with his 
hand hollowed and stretched out for charily. A statue 
formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be 
now at Paris, represents the emperor in that posture of 
supplication. The object of this self-degradation was the 
appeasement of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on 
good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
were also reminded by certain symbols attached to their 
cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and the 
crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of the 
Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above statue 
pass for that of Belisarius : and until the criticism of 
Winkelmann 2 had rectified the mistake, one fiction was 
called in to support another. It was the same fear of 
the sudden termination of prosperity that made Amasis, 
king of Egypt, warn his friend Polycrates of Samos, that 
the gods loved those whose lives were chequered with 
good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in 
wait particularly for the prudent : that is, for those 
whose caution rendered them accessible only to mere 
accidents; and her first altar was raised on the banks of 
the Phrygian vEsepus by Adrastus, probably the prince 
of that name who killed the son of Croesus by mistake. 
Hence the goddess was called Adrastea. 3 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august; there 
was a temple to her in the Palatine under the name of 
Rhamnusia : 4 so great indeed was the propensity of the 
ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to be- 
lieve in the divinity of fortune, that in the same Pala- 
tine there was a temple to the fortune of the day. 5 
This is the last superstition which retains its hold over 
the human heart; and from concentrating in one ob- 
ject the credulity so natural to man, has always ap- 
peared strongest in those unembarrassed by other 
articles of belief. The antiquaries have supposed this 

1 Sueton. in vit. Augusti, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, refers to 
Plutarch's Lives of Camillus and yEmilius Paulus, and also to his 
apophthegms, for the character of this deity. The hollowed hand was 
reckoned the last degree of degradation : and when the dead body of 
the prasfect Rufinus was borne about in triumph by the people, the 
indignity was increased by putting his hand in that position. 

2 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. xii, cap. iii, torn, ii, p. 422. Visconti 
calls the statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in the Museo Pio- 
Clement, torn, i, par. 40. The Abate Fea (Spiegazione dei Rami. 
Storia, etc., torn, iii, p. 5 1 3) calls it a Ghrisippus. 

3 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 

4 It is enumerated by the regionary Victor." 

5 uFortuuac hujusce diei.n Cicero mentions her, de legib. lib. ii. 



goddess to be synonymous with fortune and with fate: ' 
but it was in her vindictive quality that she was wor- 
shipped under the name of Nemesis. 

Note 69. Stanza cxl. 
I see before me the glaidiator lie. 
Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
image be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite of 
Winkelmnnn's criticism has been stoutly maintained, 7 - 
or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great anti- 
quary positively asserted, 3 or whether it is to be 
thought a Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, accord- 
ing to the opinion of his Italian editor, $ it must as- 
suredly seem a copy of that master-piece of Ctesilaus 
which represented « a wounded man dying, who per- 
fectly expressed what there remained of life in him.» 5 
Montfaucon G and Maffei 7 thought it the identical 
statue ; but that statue was of bronze. The gladiator 
was once in the villa Ludovizi, and was bought by 
Clement XII. The right arm is an entire restoration of 
Michael Angelo. 8 

Note 60. Stanza cxli. 

he, their sire, 

Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday. 
Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- 
tary; and were supplied from several conditions; from 
slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from bar- 
barian captives either taken in war, and, after being 
led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized 
and condemned as rebels; also from free citizens, some 
fighting for hire (auctorati), others from a depraved 
ambition : at last even knights and senators were exhi- 
bited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally 
the first inventor. 9 In the end, dwarfs, and even wo- 
men, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
these the most to be pitied undoubtedly were the bar- 
barian captives ; and to this species a Christian writer 10 
justly applies the epithet «iuuoccnt» to distinguish them 

1 R-EAE NEMESI 
SIVE FORTVN;E 
. PISTORIVS 
RVGIANYS 
V. C. LEGAT. 
LEG. XIII. G. 
GORD. 

See Oucstioncs Romana?, etc., Ap. Graev. Antiq. Roman, torn, v, 
p. 942. See also Muratori, Nov. Thesaur. Inscript. Vet. torn. J, 
pp. S3, 89 ; where there arc three Latin and one Greek inscription 
to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 

2 By the Abate Bracci, dissertazione sopra un clipeo-votivo, etc. 
Prefiice, p. 7, who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not 
for the horn, which it does not appear the gladiators themselves 
ever used. Note (A) Storia delle arti, torn, ii, p. 2o5. 

3 Either Pol ifontes, herald of Laius, killed by OEdipus; or Ce- 
preas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when he endea- 
voured to drag ihe Heraclidaa from the altar of mercy, and in whose 
honour they instituted annual games continued to the time of 
Hadrian ; or Anihemocritus, the Athenian herald, killed by the 
Megarenses, who never recovered the impiety. See Storia delle arti, 
etc., tom.-ii. pp. 2o3, 204, 2o5, 206, 207. lib. ix, cap. ii. 

4 Storia, etc., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

5 uVulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi quantum 
restat animaj.n Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xxxiv, cap. 8. 

6 Antiq. torn. iii. par. 2. lab. i55. 

7 Race. stat. tab. 64. 

8 Mus. Capitol, torn, iii, p. i54. edit. 1755. 

9 Julius Caesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought 
Furius Leptinus and A. Calenus upon the arena. 

10 Tertullian ; « certe quidem et innocentes gladiatores in ludum 
blicae hostia> riant. » Just. Lips. Saturn. 



veniunt, ut voluptatis pi 

Sermon, lib. ii, cap. iii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1 ?.q 



from the professional gladiators. A ureliau and Claudius 
supplied great numbers of these unfortunate victims, 
the one after his triumph, and the other on the pretext 
of a rebellion. 1 No -war, says Lipsius, 2 was ever so de- 
structive to the human race as these sports. In spite 
of the laws of Constantine and Gonstans, gladiatorial 
shows survived the old established religion more than 
seventy years; but they owed their final extinction to 
the courage of a Christian. In the year 4»4i ou tne ^ a " 
lends of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the 
Flavian amphitheatre before the usual immense con- 
course of people. Almachius or Telemachus, an eastern 
monk, who had travelled to Rome intent on his holy 
purpose, rushed into the midst of the area, and endea- 
voured to separate the combatants. The praetor Alypius, 
a person incredibly attached to these games, 3 gave instant 
orders to the gladiators to slay him: and Telemachus 
gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, 
which surely has never, either before or since, been 
awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius imme- 
diately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards 
revived. The story is told by Theodoret^ and Cassiodo- 
rus, 5 and seems worthy of credit, notwithstanding its 
place in the Roman martyrology. 6 Besides the torrents 
of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the amphi- 
theatres, the circus, the forums, and other public places, 
gladiators were introduced at feasts, and tore each other 
to pieces amidst the supper tables, to the great delight 
and applause of the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself 
to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident degene- 
racy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the aboli- 
tion of these bloody spectacles. 7 

Note 61. Stanza cxlii. 
Eferc, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 
When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted 
« he has it,» « hoc habet,>-> or «habet.» The wounded 
combatant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the 
edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had 
fought well, the people saved him; if otherwise, or as 
they happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so 
savage, that they were impatient if a combat lasted 
longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : and 
it is recorded as an instance of Garacalla's ferocity, that 
he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spec- 
tacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people; in other words, 
handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is 
observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The magistrate 

1 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel. ; and, in vit. Claud, ibid. 

2 «Credo, into scio, nullum bellum tantam cladern vastitiemque 
generi humano intulisse, quam hos ad yoluptatem ludos.n Just. 
Lips. ibid. lib. i, cap. xii. 

3 Augustinus, (lib. vi, confess, cap. viii,) u Alypium sunm gla- 
diatorii spectaculi inhiatu incredibiliter abreptuni,» scribit. Ibid, 
lib. i, cap. xii. 

4 Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi, lib. v. 

5 Cassiod. Tripartita, 1. x, c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

6 Baionius ad ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan. Sea 
Marangoni delle memorie sacre e profane dell' Amtiteatro Flavio, 
p. 25. edit. 1746. 

; u Quod ? non tu Lipsi momentum aiiquod habuisse censes ad vir- 
tutem? Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamus. Oppidum 
ecce unum alterumve captum, direptum est ; tumultus circa nos, non 
in nobis : et tamen concidimus et turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per 
annos meditata sapientiaj studia? ubi ilie animus qui possit dicere, 
sifraclus illabalur orl/is?" etc. ibid., lib. ii, cap. xxv. The proto- 
type of Mr Windham's panegyric on bull-baiting. 



presides; and, after the horsemen and piccadores have I 
fought the bull, the matadore steps forward and bo-svs I 
to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has 
done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, 
which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, the 
ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied 
with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of 
delight, especially from the female portion of the audi- 
ence, including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing 
depends on habit. The author of ChiJde Harold, the 
writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, 
who have certainly in other days borne the sight of a J 
pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, m tne i 
governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Ma- ! 
ria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses I 
completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman pre- i 
sent, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed ! 
that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to some 
young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued 
their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the 
ground. One bull killed three horses off his oivn horns. 
He was saved by aeclamatious, which were redoubled 
when it was known he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see- 
ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to 
look at a horse galloping round an arena with his \ 
bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spec- 
tacle and the spectators with horror and disgust. 

Note 62. Stanza cxliv. 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head. 
Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu- 
larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which en- 
abled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. ! 
He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror I 
of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger 
at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
should we without the help of the historian. 

Note 63. Stanza cxlv. 
« While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand, » etc. 
This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman ; 
Empire : and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in j 
the Historical Illustrations to the IVth Canto of Childe 
Harold. 

Note 64- Stanza cxlvi. 
spared and blest by time. 

« Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above, , 
though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes : 
flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no j 
monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as j 
this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the 1 
Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient were 
its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angclo, j 
ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design : 
as a model in the Catholic church." 

Forsyth's Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. 137. see. edit. 

Note 65. Stanza cxlvii. 

And they who feel for genius may repose 

Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. 

The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the 

busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. 

The flood of light which once fell through the large orb 

above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on 



3o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



;i liuracrous assemblage of mortals, some one or Wo of 
v horn have been almost deified by the veneration of 
their countrymen. 

Note 66. Stanza cxlviii. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of 
the Roman Daughter, which is recalled to the traveller, 
by the site or pretended site of that adventure now 
shown at the church of St Nicholas in carcere. The dif- 
ficulties attending the full belief of the tale are stated 
in Historical Illustrations, etc. 

Note 67. Stanza clii. 
Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear'd on hi^b. 
The castle of Saint Angelo. See Historical Illustra- 
tions. 

Note 68. Stanza cliii. 
But lo ! the dome— the vast and wondrous dome. 
This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St Peter. For a measurement of tiie com- 
parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
churches of Europe, see the pavement of St Peter's, 
and the Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii page 125, 
et seq. chap. iv. 

Note 69. Stanza clxxi. 

the strange fate 

Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 
Mary died on the scaffold; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles Y a hermit; Louis XIV a bankrupt in 
means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, — « the 
greatest is behind, » — Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these 
sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 
Note 70. Stanza clxxiii. 
Lo, >"emi 1 navell'd in the woody hills. 
The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, and, from the shades which embosomed the 
temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive 
appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's ride 
from the comfortable inn of Albano. 

Note 71. Stanza clxxiv. 

and afar 

The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, etc. etc. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, 
which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupi- 
ter, the prospect embraces all the objects alluded (o in 
the cited stania : the Mediterranean; the whole scene of 
the latter half of the ^Eneid; and the coast from beyond 
the mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circaeum and 
the Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lucien 
Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the actual 
site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. At 
present it has lost something of its credit, except for the 
Domenichinos. Nine monks, of the Greek order, live 
there, and the adjoining "villa is a cardinal's summer- 
house. The other villa, called Ruffinella, is on the sum- 
mit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich remains 
of Tusculum have been found there, besides seventy- 
two statues of different merit and preservation, and 
seven busts. 



From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
embosomed in which lies the long valley of Fuistiea. 
There are several circumstances which tend to establish 
the identity of this valley with the « Ustica* of Horace ; 
and it seems possible that the mosaic pavement which 
the peasants uncover by throwing up the earth of a vine- 
yard, may belong to his villa. Rustica is pronounced 
short, not according to our stress upon — « Usticce cu- 
ba7itis.ii — It is more rational to think that we arewrong, 
I than that the inhabitants of this secluded valley have 
' changed their tone in this word. The addition of the 
consonant prefixed is nothing: yet it is necessary to be 
aware that Rustica may be a modern name which the 
peasants may have caught from the antiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
covered with chesnut-trees. A stream runs down the 
valley, and although it is not true, as said in the guide- 
books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a 
village on a rock at the head of the valley which is so 
denominated, and which may have taken its name from 
the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a 
peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing 3oo. 
On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up 
into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the 
villa, is a town called Vico-varo, another favourable j 
coincidence with the Varia of the poet. At the end of 
the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned 
with a little town called Rardela. At the foot of this 
hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed 
in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing 
can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whe- 
ther in a metaphorical or direct sense : 



a Jle quotiens reficit j 
Quern Mandela bibit 



didus Digentia rivus, 
igosus frigore pagus. 



The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like 
a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is 
shown, does seem to be the site of the fane of Vacuna, 
and an inscription found there tells that this temple of 
the Sabine victory was repaired by Vespasian. 1 With 
these helps, and a position corresponding exactly to 
every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, we 
may feel tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campa- 
nile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended 
Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain 
Gcnoaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed 
land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Ban- 
dusia rises, 

u Tn frigus amabile 

Fessis vomere tauris 
Praebes, et pecori vago.» 

The peasants show another spring near the mosaic 
pavement, which they call « Oradina,» and which flows 
down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence 
trickles over into the Digentia. But we must not hope 

u To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 
by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that 



' IMP. CESAR VESPiSIi^VS 
POTIFEX NAXIMVS. IEIB. 
POTEST. CEKSOR. IDEM 
iCTOalE. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM 
SVi. IMPEKSi. EESI1TV1T. 



CH1LDK HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



l3 



immortal spring has, in fact, been discovered in pos- 
session of the holders of many good things in Italy, the 
monks. It -was attached to the church ofStGervais 
and Protais near Venusia, where it -was most likely to 
be found. 1 We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
in finding the occasional pine still pendant on the poe- 
tic villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but 
there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mis- 
took, for the tree in the ode. 2 The truth is, that the pine 
is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and 



any one should have thought Dandusia a fountain of the | exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work 
Digeutia — Horace has not let drop a word of it ; and this ' something more and better than a book of travels, but 

they have not made it a book of travels; and this obser- 
vation applies more especially to that enticing method 
of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introduction 
of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the 
rising generation,' and terrify it into decency by the 
display of all the excesses of the revolution. An ani- 
mosity against atheists and regicides in general, and 
Frenchmen specifically, may be honourable, and may 
be useful, as a record; but that antidote should either 
be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, at 



it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy accli- | least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed with 
vities of the valley of Rustiea. Horace probably had one ' the whole mass of information and reflection, as to give 
of thern in the orchard close above his farm, immediately I a bitterness to every page : for who would chuse to have 
overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at j the antipathies of any man, however just, for his tra- 
some distance from his abode. The tourist may have j veiling companions? A tourist, unless he aspires to the 



easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured in 
the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his description of the 
royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been since dis- 
placed, were assuredly only acacias and other common 
garden shrubs. 3 The extreme disappointmen t experienced 
by chusing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy must 
be allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it 
is asserted without fear of contradiction, will be con- 
firmed by every one who has selected the same conduc- 
tor through the same country. This author is, in fact, 
one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers that 
have in our times attained a temporary reputation, and 
is very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of ob- 
jects which he must be presumed to have seen. His er- 
rors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright mis- 
statement, are so frequent as so induce a suspicion that 
he had either never visited the spots described, or had 
trusted to the fidelity of former writers. Indeed the 
Classical Tour has every characteristic of a mere com- 
pilation of former notices, strung together upon a very 
slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out 
by those decorations which are so easily supplied by a 
systematic adoption of all the common-places of praise, 
applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 
The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, 
and such may experience some salutary excitement in 
ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
It must be said, however, that polish and weight are 
apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the 
pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge 
round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was 
no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. The 
love of virtue and of liberty, which must have distin- 
guished the character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr 
Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommenda- 
tory either in an author or his productions, is very con- 
spicuous throughout the Classical Tour. Cut these ge- 
nerous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, 
and may be spread about it so prominently and pro- 
fusely, as to embarrass those who wish to see and find 
the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 



1 See Historical Illustrations of the fourth Canto, p. 43. 

2 See Classical Tour, etc., chap, vii, p. 25o, vol. ii. 

3 k Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the roval 
garden, laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orange 
trees." Classical Tour, etc., chap, xi, vol. ii, oct. 365. 



credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 
which may take place in the country which he describes : 
but bis reader may very fairly esteem all his political 
portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the 
moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if 
they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern- 
ment, or governors, is meaut to be here offered; but it 
is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change 
operated, either by the address of the late imperial sys- 
tem, or by the disappointment of every expectation by 
those who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has 
been so considerable, and is so apparent, as not only 
to put Mr Eustace's Antigallican philippics entirely out 
of date, but even to throw some suspicion upon the 
competency and candour of the author himself. A re- 
markable example may be found in the instance of Bo- 
logna, over whose papal attachments, and consequent 
desolation, the tourist pours forth such strains of con- 
dolence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed 
trumpet of Mr Burke. Now, Bologna is at this moment, 
and has been for some years, notorious amongst the 
states of Italy for its attachment to revolutionary prin- 
ciples, and was almost the only city which made any 
demonstrations in favour of the unfortunate Murat. 
This change may, however, have been made since Mr 
Eustace visited this country; but the traveller whom he 
has thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of the 
copper from the cupola of St Peter's, must be much 
relieved to find that sacrilege out of the power of the 
French, or any other plunderers, the cupola being co- 
vered with lead. 1 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics i.acl 
not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, 
it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, that, 
however it may adorn his library, it will be of little or 
no service to him in his carriage; and if the judgment 
of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no attempt 
would have been made to anticipate their decision. As 
it is, those who stand in the relation of posterity to Mr 
Eustace may be permitted to appeal from contempo- 
rary praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just 

1 "What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror of 

my reader, when I inform him the French Committee 

turned its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews 
to estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze, that adorn the 
inside of the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and 
dome on the outside. n Chap, iv, p. i3o. vol. ii. The story about 
the Jews is positively denied at Rome. 



l32 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, 
heen made before the above remarks "were "written; for 
one of the most respectable of the Florentine publishers, 
who had been persuaded by the repeated inquiries of 
I those on their journey southwards, to reprint a cheap 
| edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring 



advice of returning travellers, induced to abandon his 
design, although he had already arranged his types and 
paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sheets. 
The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
Mr Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the Car- 
dinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend the 
same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 



W&$ (Sterna: $ 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting. 

MOORE. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 



AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS. 
RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

®&te ^rotructum in fornix*, 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Tale which these disjointed fragments present is 
founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
East than formerly; either because the ladies are 
more circumspect than in the « olden time;» or 
because the Christians have better fortune, or less 
enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time 
the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back 
from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some 
time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The deser- 
tion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of 
Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, 
and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the 
cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even 
in the annals of the faithful. 



THE GIAOUR. 



No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenians grave, 
That tomb l which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odours there ! 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale, 2 

The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share. 
And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
That holds the pirate for a guest; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 
Till the gay mariner's guitar 3 
Is heard, and seen the evening star; 



! 

THE GIAOUR. i33 


Then stealing with the muffled oar, 


Was freedom's home or glory's grave! 


Far shaded by the rocky shore, 


Shrine of the mighty! can it be, 


Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 


That this is all remains of thee? 


And turn to groans his roundelay. 


Approach, thou craven crouching slave: 


Strange — that where nature loved to trace, 


Say, is not this Thermopylae? 


As if for gods, a dwelling-place, 


These waters blue that round you lave, 


And every charm and grace hath mix'd 


Oh servile offspring of the free, — 


Within the paradise she fix'd, 


Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 


There man, enamour'd of distress. 


The gulf, the rock of Salami's! 


Should mar it into wilderness, 


These scenes, their story not unknown, 


And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 


Arise, and make again your own ; 


That tasks not one laborious hour ; 


Snatch from the ashes of your sires 


Nor claims the culture of his hand 


The embers of their former fires: 


To bloom along the fairy land, 


And he who in the strife expires 


But springs as to preclude his care, 


Will add to theirs a name of fear 


And sweetly woes him — but to spare ! 


That tyranny shall quake to hear, 


Strange, that where all is peace beside 


And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 


There passion riots in her pride, 


They too will rather die than shame : 


And lust and rapine wildly reign 


For freedom's battle once begun, 


To darken o'er the fair domain. 


Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 


It is as though the Sends prevail'd 


Though baffled oft is ever won. 


Against the seraphs they assail'd, 


Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 


And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 


Attest it many a deathless age! 


The freed inheritors of hell ; 


While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 


So soft the scene, so fonn'd for joy, 


Have left a nameless pyramid, 


So curst the tyrants that destroy! 


Thy heroes, though the general doom 




Hath swept the column from their tomb, 


He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 


A mightier monument command, 


Ere the first day of death is fled, 


The mountains of their native land ! 


Tke first dark day of nothingness, 


There points thy muse to stranger's eye 


The last of danger and distress 


The graves of those that cannot die ! 


(Before decay's effacing fingers 


T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 


Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), 


Each step from splendour to disgrace; 


And mark'd the mild angelic air, 


Enough — no foreign foe could quell 


The rapture of repose that 's there, 


Thy soul, till from itself it fell; 


The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 


Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 


The languor of the placid cheek, 


To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 


And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 




That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 


What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 


And but for that chill, changeless brow. 


No legend of thine olden time, 


Where cold obstruction's apathy i 


No theme on which the muse might soar. 


Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 


High as thine own in days of yore, 


As if to him it could impart 


When man was worthy of thy clime. 


The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 


The hearts within thy valleys bred, 


Yes, but for these, and these alone, 


The fiery souls that might have led 


Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 


Thy sons to deeds sublime, 


He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 


Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 


So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 


Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, 6 


The first, last look by death reveal'd ! 5 


And callous, save to crime; 


Such is the aspect of this shore: 


Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 


'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 


Mankind, where least above the brutes; 


So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 


Without even savage virtue blest, 


We start, for soul is wanting there. 


Without one free or valiant breast. 


Hers is the loveliness in death, 


Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 


That parts not quite with parting breath ; 


Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; 


But beauty with that fearful bloom, 


In this the subtle Greek is found. 


That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 


For this, and this alone, renown'd. 


Expression's last receding ray, 


In vain might liberty invoke 


A gilded halo hovering round decay, 


The spirit to its bondage broke. 


The farewell beam of feeling past away! 


Or raise the neck that courts the yoke . 


Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 


No more her sorrows I bewail, 


Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! 


Yet this will be a mournful tale. 




And they who listen may believe, 


Clime of the uuforgotten brave! 


Wlio heard it first had ca;;sc to grieve. 


Whose laud from plain to mountain-cave 





u 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat ' 
Of island-pirate or Mainote; 
And, fearful for his light caique, 
He shuns the near but doubtful creek: 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an eastern night. 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound, 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide : 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There 's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! 7 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by liery passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor-like thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
He winds around; he hurries by; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along; but, ere he pass'd, 
One glance he suatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill, 
The mosque's high lamps are quivering still: 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike, 8 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun : 
To-night, the Bairam's feast's begun; 
To-night — but who and what art thou, 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow? 



And what are these to thine or thee, 

That thou shouldst cither pause or flee? 

He stood — some dread was on his face, 

Soon hatred settled in its place: 

It rose not with the reddening flush » 

Of transient anger's darkening blush, 

But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 

Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 

His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And sternly shook his hand on high, 

As doubting to return or fly: 

Impatient of his flight delay'd, 

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade : 

That sound had burst his waking dream, 

As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 

The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; 

Away, away, for life he rides; 

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,9 

Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 

The rock is doubled, and the shore 

Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 

The crag is won, no more is seen 

His christian crest and haughty mien. 

'T was but an instant he restrain'd 

That fiery barb so sternly rein'd: 

'T was but a moment that he stood, 

Then sped as if by death pursued ; 

Rut in that instant o'er his soul 

Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 

And gather in that drop of time 

A life of pain, an age of crime. 

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 

Such moment pours the grief of years : 

What felt he then, at once opprest 

By all that most distracts the breast? 

That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 

Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 

Though in time's record nearly nought, 

It was eternity to thought ! 

For infinite as boundless space 

The thought that conscience must embrace, 

Which in itself can comprehend 

Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 
To turn a palace to a tomb : 
He came, he went, like the simoom,* 
That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely spider's thin grey pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
The bat builds in his haram bower ; 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-tower; 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; 



THE GIAOUR. 



35 



For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 

Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread 

'T was sweet of yore to see it play 

And chase the sultriness of day, 

As, springing bigh, the silver dew 

In whirls fantastically flew, 

And flung luxurious coolness round 

The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 

'T was sweet, when cloudiess stars were bright, 

To view the wave of watery light, 

And hear its melody by night. 

And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 

Around the verge of that cascade; 

And oft upon his mother's breast 

That sound had harmonized his rest; 

And oft had Hassan's youth along 

Its bank been soothed by beauty's song; 

And softer seem'd each melting tone 

Of music mingled with its own. 

But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 

Along the brink at twilight's close: 

The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 

The blcod that warm'd his heart is shed ! 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice; 

The last sad note that swell'd the gale 

Was woman's wildest funeral wail: 

That quenched in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands 't were joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man — 

So here the very voice of grief 

Might wake an echo like relief; 

At least 't would say, « all are not gone ; 

« There lingers life, though but in one — » 

For many a gilded chamber's there, 

Which solitude might well forbear! 

Within that dome as yet decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate, 

Nor there the fakir's self will wait; 

Nor there will wandering dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred « bread and salt." " 

Alike must wealth and poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For courtesy and pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is desolations hungry den. 
The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! 12 



I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan. l3 
The foremost of the band is seen, 
An emir by his garb of green: '4 
« Ho! who art thou? — this low salam l5 
Replies of Moslem faith I am. 



The burthen ye so gently bear, 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait.» 

« Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore : 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channel'd waters dark and deep, 
Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run; 
Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of— 



Sullen it pluuged, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank. 
I watch'd it as it sank ; methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed till, vanishing from view, 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew; 
Still less aud less a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Known but to genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in their coral caves, 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 



As rising on its purple w ing 
The insect-queen l6 of eastern, spring, 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye: 
So beauty lures the full-grown child, 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Woe waits the insect and the maid; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice: 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hath lost its charm by being caught. 
For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or hleediug breast, 
Ah! where shall either victim rest? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before? 
Or beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower? 
No : gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own, 



36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And every woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 



The mind that broods o'er guilty woes 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire; 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till, inly search' d by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain. 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire; i7 
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death! 



Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away, 
When Rhamazan's lS last sun was set, 
And, flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
'T was then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage, 
lu likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong' d him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well. 
But others say, that on that night, 
By pale Phingari's '9 trembling light, 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 



Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 2a 



Yea, soul, and should our prophet say 

That form was nought but breathing clay, 

By Alia ! I would answer nay, 

Though on Al-Sirat's 21 arch I stood, 

Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 

With paradise within my view, 

And all his houris beckoning through. 

Oh! who young Leila's glance could read, 

And keep that portion of his creed 22 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? 

On her might muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone; 

On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's ^ blossoms strew 

Their bloom in blushes ever new; 

Her hair in hyacinthine 2 £ flow, 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. . 

The cygnet nobly walks the water; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan! 25 

As rears her crest the ruffled sw r an, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait; 
Her heart as tender to her mate; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was lie? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee! 



Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en, 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaout blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befel in Parne's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pacha wore, 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 
'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 

The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 't were vain to seek 



THE GIAOUH. 



37 



In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar 's in the gap. 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 
The rest in lengthening lirje the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile. 
Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there. 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite grey, 
By time , or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd? 



They reach the grove of pine at last: 
« Bismillah! ^ now the peril 's past; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And there we '11 prick our steeds amain." 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head. 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent. 
Some o'er their coursers' harness leant. 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock. 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Gould now avail the promised prey. 
Then curled his very beard ~1 with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire: 
« Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this.» 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit : 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 2 S 



In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand. 
Far flashing in his red right hand? 
« 'T is he ! ' t is he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow; 
I know him by the evil eye 2 9 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb: 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death. 
'T is he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !» 

As rolls the river into ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar: 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bauds, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
And pealing wide or ringing near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar : 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war. 
Reverberate along that vale, 
More suited to the shepherd's tale. 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife 
That neither spares nor speaks for life. 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
To seize and share the dear caress, 
But love itself could never pant 
For all that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervour hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold. 
Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith : 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ' 



With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand j 
His turban far behind him roll'd, 
And cleft in t-wain its firmest fold; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of morn 
That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end; 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fragment of his palampore, 3o 

iS 



38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 
As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate; 
And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as his that bled below. — 



« Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
He call'd on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go — but go alone.» 



[The browzing camels' bells are tinkling: 
His mother look'd from her lattice high — 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
« 'T is twilight — sure his train is nigh.» 
She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower 
« Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat: 
Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'u our nearest mountains brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 

And now within the valley bends; 

And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 

How could 1 deem his courser slow ? 

Right well my largess shall repay 

His welcome speed, and weary way.» 

The Tartar lighted at the gate, 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight: 
His swarthy visage spake distress, 

But this might be from weariness; 

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 

But these might be from his courser's side; 

He drew the token from his vest — 

Angel of Death! t is Hassan's cloven crest! 

His calpac 3l rent— his caftan red— 

« Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed: 

Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 

But this empurpled pledge to bear. 

Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt : 

Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.» 



A turban 32 carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 



Whereon can now be scarcely read 

The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 

Point out the spot where Hassan fell 

A victim in that lonely dell. 

There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 

As e'er at Mecca bent the knee; 

As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 

Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 

In orisons resumed anew 

At solemn sound of « Alia Hu!» 33 

Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 

And stranger in his native land; 

Yet died he as in arms he stood, 

And unavenged, at least in blood. 

But him the maids of paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, 3 4 
And welcome with a kiss the brave! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But tbou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's 35 scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' 36 throne; 
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell! 
But first, on earth as vampire 3 7 sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; 
Then with unhallow d hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock, when shorn, 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn; 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 38 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; 
Then, stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 



THE GIAOUR. 189 


«How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 


Not oft to smile descendeth he, 


His features I have scann'd before 


And, when he doth, 't is sad to see 


In mine own land: 't is many a year, 


That he but mocks at misery. 


Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 


How that pale lip will curl and quiver 1 


I saw him urge as fleet a steed 


Then fix once more as if for ever ; 


As ever served a horseman's need. 


As if his sorrow or disdain 


But once I saw that face, yet then 


Forbade him e'er to smile again. 


It was so mark'd with inward pain, 


Well w ere it so — such ghastly mirth 


I could not pass it by again; 


From joyauuce ne'er derived its birth. 


It breathes the same dark spirit now, 


But sadder still it were to trace 


As death were stamp'd upon his brow.» 


What once were feelings in that face: 




Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 


« «'T is twice three years at summer tide 


But brighter traits with evil mix'd; 


Since first among our freres he came; 


And there are hues not always faded, 
Which speak a mind not all degraded, 


And here it soothes him to abide 


For some dark deed he will not name. 


Even by the crimes through which it waded : 


But never at our vesper prayer, 


The common crowd but see the gloom 
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 


Nor e'er before confession chair 


Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 


The close observer can espy 


Incense or anthem to the skies, 


A noble soul, and lineage high : 


But broods within his cell alone, 


Alas! though both bestow'd in vain, 


His faith and race alike unknown. 


Which grief could change, and guilt could stain, 


The sea from Paynim land he crost, 


It was no vulgar tenement 


And here ascended from the coast ; 


To which such lofty gifts were lent, 


Yet seems he not of Othman race, 


And still with little less than dread 


But only Christian in his face: 


On such the siglu is riveted. 


I'd judge him some stray renegade, 


The roofless cot, decay' d and rent, 


Repentant of the change he made, 


Will scarce delay the passer-by; 


Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 


The tower by war or tempest bent, 


Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 


While yet may frown one battlement, 


Great largess to these walls he brought, 


Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; 


And thus our abbot's favour bought : 


Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 


But, were I prior, not a day 


Pleads haughtily for glories gone. 


Should brook such stranger's further stay; 


« His floating robe around him folding, 


Or, pent within our penance cell, 


Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; 


Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 


With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 


Much in his visions mutters he 


The rites that sanctify the pile. 


. Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea; 


But when the anthem shakes the choir, 


Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 


And kneel the monks, his steps retire : 


Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 


By yonder lone and wavering torch 


On cliff he hath been known to stand, 


His aspect glares within the porch ; 


And.rave as to some bloody hand 


There will he pause till all is done — 


Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 


And hear the prayer, but utter none. 


Invisible to all but him, 


See — by the half-illumined wall 


Which beckons onward to his grave 


His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 


And lures to leap into the wave.» 


That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 




As if the Gorgon there had bound 




The sablest of the serpent-braid 


Dark and unearthly is the scowl 


That o'er her fearful forehead slray'd : 


That glares beneath his dusky cowl: 


For he declines the convent oath, 


The flash of that dilating eye 


And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 


Reveals too much of times gone by ; 


But wears our garb in all beside; 


Though varying, indistinct its hue, 


And not from piety, but pride, 


Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 


Gives wealth to walls that never heard 


For in it lurks that nameless spell 


Of his one holy vow nor word 


Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 


Lo! — mark ye, as the harmony 


A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 


Peals louder praises to the sky, 


That claims and keeps ascendancy; 


That livid cheek, that stony air 


And like the bird whose pinions quake, 


Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 


But cannot fly the gazing snake, 


Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 


Will others quail beneath his look, 


Else may we dread the wrath divine, 


Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 


Made manifest by awful sign. 


From him the half-affrighted friar 


If ever evil angel bore 


When met alone would fain retire, 


The form of mortal, such he wore : 


As if that eye and bitter smile 


By all my hope of sins forgiven, 


Transferr'd to others fear and guile: 


Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !» 



f4° BYRON'S 


WORKS. 





To love the softest hearts are prone, 


Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, 


But such can ne'er be all his own ; 


Such as thy penitents unfold, 




Too timid in his woes to share, 


Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 




Too meek to meet, or brave despair; 


Within thy pure and pitying breast. 




And sterner hearts alone may feel 


My days, though few, have pass'd below 




The wound that time can never heal. 


In much of joy, but more of woe; 




I The rugged metal of the mine 


Yet still, in hours of love or strife, 




Must burn before its surface shine, 


I 've 'scaped the weariness of life : 




But plunged within the furnace-flame, 


Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 




It bends and melts — though still the same; 


I loathed the languor of repose. 




Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 


Now nothing left to love or hate, 




"f will serve thee to defend or kill ; 


No more with hope or pride elate, 




A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 


I 'd rather be the thing that crawls 




Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed.; 


Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 




But if a dagger's form it bear, 


Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 




Let those who shape its edge beware ! 


Gondemn'd to meditate and gaze. 




Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 


Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 




Can turn and tame the sterner heart; 


For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 




From these its form and tone are la'en. 


Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 




And what they make it, must remain, 


And I shall sleep without the dream 




Hut break — before it bend again. 


Of what I was, and would be still, 




+ *•**** 


Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 




* 


My memory now is but the tomb 




If solitude succeed to grief, 


Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom : 




Belease from pain is slight relief; 


Though better to have died with those, 




The vacant bosom's wilderness 


Than bear a life of lingering woes. 




Might thank the pang that made it less. 


My spirits shrunk not to sustain 




We loathe what none are left to share: 


The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 




Even bliss — 't were woe alone to bear; 


Nor sought the self-accorded grave 




The heart once left thus desolate 


Of ancient fool and modern knave : 




Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 


Yet death I have not fear'd to meet; 




It is as if the dead could feel 


And in the field it had been sweet, 




The icy worm around them steal, 


Had danger wood me on to move 




And shudder, as the reptiles creep 


The slave of glory, not of love. 




To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 


I've braved it — not for honour's boast; 




Without the power to scare away 


I smile at laurels won or lost; 




The cold consumers of their clay ! 


To such let others carve their way, 




It is as if the desert-bird, 3 9 


For high renown, or hireling pay : 




Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 


But place again before my eyes 




To still her famish' d nestlings' scream, 


Aught that I deem a worthy prize; 




Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 


The maid I love, the man I hate, 




Should rend her rash devoted breast, 


And I will hunt the steps of fate 




And find them flown her empty nest. 


To save or slay, as these require, 




The keenest pangs the wretched find 


Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 




Are rapture to the dreary void, 


Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 




The leafless desert of the mind, 


Who would but do — what he hath done. 




The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 


Death is but what the haughty brave, 




Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 


The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; 




A sky without a cloud or sun? 


Then let life go to him who gave : 




Less hideous far the tempest's roar 


1 have not quail'd to danger's brow 




Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 


When high and happy — need I nowl 




Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 


****** 




A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 






'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 


« I loved her, friar! nay, adored — 




Unseen to drop by dull decay. — 


But these are words that all can use — 




Better to sink beneath the shock 


. I proved it more in deed than word; 




Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 


There's blood upon that dinted sword, 






A stain its steel can never lose: 
'T was shed for her, who died for me, 




« Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 


It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd. 




'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 


Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 




To bid the sins of others cease, 


Nor midst my sins such act record : 




Thyself without a crime or care, 


Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 




Save transient ills that all must bear, 


For he was hostile to thy creed! 




Has been thy lot from youth to age; 


The very name of Nazarene 




And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 


Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 





THE GIAOUR. 



14. 



Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 

Well wielded in some hardy hands, 

And wounds by Galileans given, 

The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 

For him his Houris still might wait 

Impatient at the prophet's gate. ■ 

I loved her — love will find its way 

Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 

And if it dares enough, t were hard 

If passion met not some reward — 

No matter how, or where, or why, 

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: 

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

She died— I dare not tell thee how ; 

But look — 't is written on my brow ! 

There read of Cain the curse and crime 

In characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; 

Not mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but what I had done, 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 

But true to me, I laid him low : 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 

To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 

And I, alas ! too late to save ! 

Yet all I then could give, I gave — 

'T was some relief — our foe a grave. 

His death sits lightly; but her fate 

Has made me— what thou well mayst hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly-boding ear 4o 
The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross'd me in the fray— 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 



« The cold in clime are cold in blood, 

Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
But mine was like the lava flood 

That boils in ./Etna's breast of flame. 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 



Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 

If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 

And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 

And all that I have felt, and feel, 

Betoken love — that love was mine, 

And shown by many a bitter sign. 

T is true I could not whine nor sigh, 

I knew but to obtain or die. 

/ 
I die — but first I have possess'd, 

And, come what may, I have been blest. 

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 

No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 

But for the thought of Leila slain, 

Give me the pleasure with the pain, 

So would 1 live and love again. 

I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 

For him who dies, but her who died: 

She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 

Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 

This breaking heart and throbbing head 

Should seek and share her narrow bed. 

She was a form of life and light, 

That, seen, became a part of sight ; 

And rose where'er I turn'd mine eye, 

The morning-star of memory ! 

« Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A glory circling round the soul ! 
I graut my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
She was my life's unerring light ; 
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night? 
Oh! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In frenzy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow : 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
T is true, that, like that bird of prey, 

With havock have I mark'd my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 



1^2 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


And let the fool, still prone to range, 


And he will start to hear their truth, 


And sneer on all who cannot change, 


And wish his words had not been sooth : 


Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 


Tell him, unheeding as I was, 


I envy not his varied joys, 


Through many a busy bitter scene, 


But deem such feeble, heartless man, 


Of all Gur golden youth had been, 


Less than yon solitary swan; 


In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 


Far, far beneath the shallow maid 


To bless his memory ere I died ; 


He left believing and betray'd. 


But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 


Such shame at least was never mine — 


If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 


Leila! each thought was only thine! 


I do not ask him not to blame, 


My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 


Too gentle he to wound my name ; 


My hope on high — my all below. 


And what have I to do with fame ? 


Earth holds no other like to thee, 


I do not ask him not to mourn, 


Or if it doth, in vain for me : 


Such cold request might sound like scorn; 


For worlds I dare not view the dame 


And what than friendship's manly tear 


Resembling thee, yet not the same. 


May better grace a brother's bier ! 


The very crimes that mar my youth, 


But bear this ring, his own of old, 


This bed of death — attest my truth ! 


And tell him — what thou dost behold! 


'T is all too late— thou wert, thou art 


The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 


The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 


The wreck by passion left behind, 




A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter d leaf, 


« And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 


Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 


But not the breath of human life : 


♦ ♦♦ + ♦• 


A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 




And stung my every thought to strife. 


« Tell me no more of fancy's gleam ; 


Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 


No, father, no, 't was not a dream : 


Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, 


Alas! the dreamer first must sleep; 


Where every hue that charm' d before 


I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep, 


The blackness of my bosom wore. 


But could not, for my burning brow 


The rest thou dost already know, 


Throbb'd to the very brain, as now : 


And all my sins, and half my woe. 


I wish'd but for a single tear, 


But talk no more of penitence; 


As something welcome, new, and dear: 


Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence : 


I wish'd it then, I wish it still — 


And if thy holy tale were true, 


Despair is stronger than my will. 


The deed that 's done canst thou undo ? 


Waste not thine orison, despair 


Think me not thankless — but this grief 


Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 


Looks not to priesthood for relief.^ 1 


I would not, if I might, be blest ; 


My soul's estate in secret guess : 


I want no paradise, but rest. 


But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 


'T was then, I tell thee, father! then 


When thou canst bid my Leila live, 


I saw her; yes, she lived again; 


Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 


And shining in her white symar,^ 2 


Then plead my cause in that high place 


As through yon pale grey cloud the star 


Where purchased masses proffer grace. 


Which now 1 gaze on, as on her, 


Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 


Who look'd and looks far lovelier; 


From forest-cave her shrieking young, 


Dimly I view its trembling spark: 


And calm the lonely lioness: 


To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 


But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 


And I, before its rays appear, 




That lifeless thing the living fear. 


« In earlier days, and calmer hours, 


I wander, father ! for my soul 


When heart with heart delights to blend, 


Is fleeting towards the hnal goal. 


Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 


I saw her, friar ! and I rose 


I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 


Forgetful of our former woes; 


To him this pledge I charge thee send, 


And rushing from my couch, I dartj 


Memorial of a youthful vow ; 


And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 


I would remind him of my end : 


I clasp — what is it that I clasp? 


Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 


No breathing form within my grasp, 


Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 


No heart that beats reply to mine. 


Yet dear to him my blighted name. 


Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 


Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 


And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 


And I have smiled — I then could smile — 


As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 


When prudence would his voice assume, 


Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 


And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : 


I care not; so my arms enfold 


But now remembrance whispers o'er 


The all they ever wish'd to hold. 


Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 


Alas ! around a shadow prest, 


Say— that his bodings came to pass, 


They shrink upon my lonely breast; 



THE GIAOUR. 



i43 



Yet still 't is there ! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye- 
I knew 't was false — she could not die! 
But he is dead! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake? 
They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love; 
They told me — 't was a hideous tale ! 
I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou comest to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart: 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 



« Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.» 
He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day: 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew.4 3 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page i32, line 3. 
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 
A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 

Note 2. Page i32, line 22. 
Sultana of the nightingale. 
The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the « Bul- 
bul of a thousand tales » is one of his appellations. 

Note 3. Page i32, line 4c. 

Till the gay mariner's guitar. 

The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 

sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a 

calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 

by dancing. 

Note 4. Page i33, line 40. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy. 

■ Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To lie in cold obstruction." 

Measure for Measure, Act III. i3o. Sc. 2. 



Note 5. Page i33, line 48. 

The first, last look by death reveal'd. 
I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- 
portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription, but those who have will probably retain a 
painful remembrance of that singular beauty which 
pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the dead, 
a few hours, and but for a few hours, after « the spirit 
is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of -violent 
death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that 
of languor, whatever the natural energy of the suffer- 
er's character; but in death from a stab the counte- 
nance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the 
mind its bias to the last. 

Note 6. Page i33, line 110. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of 
the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints 
the Waywode. A pandar and eunuch — these are not 
polite, yet true appellations — now governs the governor 
of Athens ! 

Note 7. Page i34, line 23. 
'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. 
Infidel. 

Note 8. Page i34, line 58. 

In echoes of the far tophaike. 

«Tophaike,» musket. — The Bairam is announced by 

the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the mosques, 

and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 

ball, proclaim it during the night. 

Note 9. Page i34, line 84. 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed. 
Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which 
is darted from horseback with great force and precision. 
It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I know 
not if it can be called a manly one, since the most ex- 
pert in the art are the black eunuchs of Constantinople 
— I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the 
most skilful that came within my observation. 

Note 10. Page i34, line 11 5. 
He came, he went, like the Simoom. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and 
often alluded to in eastern poetry. 

Note 11. Page 1 35, line 47- 
To bless the sacred u bread and salt.* 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 
host, insures the safety of the guest; even though an 
enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 

Note 12. Page i35, line 55. 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
I need hardly observe that Charity and Hospitality are 
the first duties enjoined by Mahomet; and, to say truth, 
very generally practised by his disciples. The first 
praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a panegyric 
on his bounty; the next on his valour. 

Note i3. Page i35, line 59. 
And silver-sheaihed ataghan. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, 
among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 14. Page i35, line 61. 

An emir by his garb of green. 

Green is the privileged colour of the Prophet's nu- 
merous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, 
faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
the necessity of good works: they are the worst of a 
very indifferent brood. 

Note i5. Page i35, line 62. 

a Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam, » etc. 

Salam aleikoum! aleikoum salam! peace be with 
you,- be with you peace — the salutation reserved for 
the faithful: — to a Christian, « Urlarula,» a good jour- 
ney; or saban hiresem, saban serula; good morn, good 
even; and sometimes, « may your end be happy ;» are 
the usual salutes. 

Note 16. Page 1 35, line g3. 
The insect-queen of eastern spring. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare 
and beautiful of the species. 

Note 17. Page i36, line i5. 

Or lire like scorpion girt by fire. 
Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement : but 
others have actually brought in the verdict, « Felo de 
se.» The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
decision of the question , as, if once fairly established 
as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as 
long as they think proper, without being martyred for 
the sake of an hypothesis. 

Note 18. Page i36, line 3o. 

When Rhamazan's last sun was set. 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See note 8. 

Note 19. Page i36, line 49. 
By pale Phingari's trembling light. 

Phingari, the moon. 

Note 20. Page i36, line 60. 

Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendour, named 
Schebgerag, « the torch of night;» also « the cup of 
the sun,» etc. — In the first editions « Giamschid » was 
written as a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelot has 
it; but I am told Piichardson reduces it to a dissyllable, 
and writes « Jamshid.» I have left in the text the or- 
thography of the one with the pronunciation of the 
other. 

Note 21. Page i36, line 64. 

Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge, of breadth less than the thread 
of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must 
skate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; 
but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful 
and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a « facilis 
descensus Averni,» not very pleasing in prospect to the 
next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for 
the Jews and Christians. 

Note 22. Page i36, line 69. 
And keep that portion of his creed. 
A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third of 



paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the greater 
number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own 
way, and exclude their moieties from heaven. Being 
enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern « any fitness 
of things » in the souls of the other sex, conceiving 
them to be superseded by the Houris. 

Note 2 3. Page 1 36, line 75. 
The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though 
fairly stolen, be deemed « plus Arabe qu'en Arabie.» 

Note 24. Page i36, line 77. 

Her hair in hyacinthine flow. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic «Sunbul;» as common a 
thought in the Eastern poets as it was among the 
Greeks. 

Note 25. Page i36, line 87. 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 
« Franguestan, » Circassia. 

Note 26. Page 137, line 26. 

u Bismillah ! now the peril 's past," etc. 

Bismillah — « In the name of God,» the commence- 
ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
prayer and thanksgiving. 

Note 27. Page 137, line Si. 

Then curl'd his very beard with ire. 
A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a diplo- 
matic audiencewerenotlesslivelywith indignation than 
a tiger-cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans ; the 
portentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their 
own accord, and were expected every moment to change 
their colour, but at last condescended to subside, which 
probably saved more heads than they contained hairs. 

Note 28. Page 137, line 61. 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 
«Amaun,» quarter, pardon. 

Note 29. Page 137, line 70. 
I know him by the evil eye. 
The «evil eye,» a common superstition in the Levant, 
and of which the imaginary effects are yet very singular 
on those who conceive themselves affected. 

Note 3o. Page i37,line 124. 
A fragment of his palampore. 
The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of 
rank. 

Note 3i. Page r 38, line 5i. 
His calpacrent — his caftan red. 
The « Calpac » is the solid cap or centre part of the 
head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the 
turban. 

Note 32. Page i38, line 57. 

A turban carved in coarsest stone. 
The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery 
or the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently 
pass similar mementos; and, on inquiry, you are in- 
formed that they record some victim of rebellion, plun- 
der, or revenge. 

Note 33. Page i38, line 68. 

At solemn sound of « Alia Hu !» 

«Alla Hu!» the concluding words of the Muezzin's 



THE GIAOUR. 



j45 



call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior 
of the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin 
has a fine voice, -which is frequently the case, the effect 
is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Chris- 
tendom. 

Note 34. Page i38, line 77. 

They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 

The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : 

— « I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she 

waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries 

aloud, Gome, kiss me, for I love thee,» etc. 

Note 35. Page i38, line 82. 

Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. 
Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate 
and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a 
scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till pro- 
perly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. 
The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but 
two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a 
small proportion to the remainder, their hands are al- 
ways full. 

Note 36. Page i38, line 84. 

To wander round lost Eljlis' throne. 
Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

Note 37. Page i38, line 89. 

But first, on earth as vampire sent. 
The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
vant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr 
Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these 
« Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term 
is « Vardoulacha.» I recollect a whole family being 
terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined 
must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never 
mention the word without horror. I find that « Brou- 
colokas » is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at 
least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the 
Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil. The 
moderns, however, use the word I mention. 

Note 38. Page i38, line 11 5. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 
The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. 
The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 
feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly 
attested. 

Note 39. Page 140, line 36. 

It is as if the desert-bird. 
The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 

Note 4». Page 141, line 36. 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear. 
This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met 
with downright second-sight in the East) fell once under 
my own observation. — On my third journey to Gape 
Colonna early in 181 1, as we passed through the defile 
that leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, 
I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, 
and leaning his head upon his hand as if in pain. I rode 
up and inquired. «We are in peril, » he answered. 
« What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the 



passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are 
plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have not 
courage to be thieves." — « True, Affendi; but never- 
theless the shot is ringing in my ears.» — «The shot! — 
not a tophaike has been fired this morning. » — « I hear 
it notwithstanding — Bom— Bom — as plainly as I hear 
your voice. » — «Psha.» — «As you please, Affendi ; if itis 
written, so will it be.» — I left this quick-eared predesti- 
narian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, 
whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means 
relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Golonna, 
remained some hours, and returned leisurely, saying a 
variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled 
the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer ; Romaic, 
Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, 
in various conceits upon the unfortunate Mussulman. 
While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, 
Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought 
he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if 
he had become a « Palaocastro » man: « No,» said he, 
« but these pillars will be useful in making a stand ;» 
and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own 
belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-hearing. On 
our return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a prisoner 
set ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the 
Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking 
place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was 
at some pains to question the man, and he described the 
dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so 
accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
doubt of his having been in «villanous company," and 
ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- 
tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
race. In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
Arnaout came (I believe the 5oth on the same errand) 
to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
«Well, Affendi, » quoth he, « may you live ! — you would 
have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the 
hills to-morrow; in the winter I return, perhaps you 
will then receive me.» — Dervish, who was present, 
remarked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
« in the mean time he will join the Klephtes,» (robbers), 
which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they come 
down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some 
town, where they are often as well known as their 
exploits. 

Note 41 • Page 1 4 2 > nne 36. 

Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
so little effect upon the patient, that it cotdd have no 
hopes from the reader. It maybe sufficient to say, that 
it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from 
the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), and 
was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. 

Note 42. Page 142, line 102. 
And shining in her white symar. 

« Symar» — Shroud. 

Note 43. Page 143, line 37. 
The circumstance to which the above story relates 
was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the 
wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his 

19 



1 46 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



sons supposed iufidelity ; he asked with whom, aud she 
had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve hand- 
somest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened 
up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night ! 
One of the guards who was present informed me, that 
not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symp- 
tom of terror at so sudden a « wrench from all we 
know, from all we love.» The fate of Phrosine, the fair- 
est of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of 
a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- 
gotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the 
coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, 
and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- 
guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery; 



and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag- 
ments of the original. 

For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most eastern, 
and, as Mr Weber justly entitles it, « sublime tale,» the 
« Caliph Vathek. » I do not know from what source 
the author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
« Bibliotheque Orientale;» but for correctness of cos- 
tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, 
it far surpasses all European imitations ; and bears such 
marks of originality, that those who have visited the 
East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more 
than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas 
must bow before it; his « Happy Valley » will not bear 
a comparison with the « Hall of Eblis.» 



©ttf Attire of &6siK>?3, 

A TURKISH TALE. 



Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

BURNS. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF BEGABD AND BESPECT, BY HIS GBATEFULLY OBLIGED 
AND SINCEBE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO I. 



i. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine , 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'dwith perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul l in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
T is the clime of the East; 't is the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 2 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they 
tell. 



II. 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
Old Giaffir sat in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 

« Let the chamber be clear'd.» — The train disappear'd- 

« Now cali me the chief of the Haram guard. » 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

<■<■ Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fix'd this verv hour: 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



i4 7 



Yet not to her repeat my thought; . 
By me alone he duty taught! » 

« Pacha! to hear is to obey.» 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here youug Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha s feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire. 

« Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song: 3 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour £ 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 

« Son of a slave!» — the Pacha said — 

« From unbelieving mother bred, 

Vain were a father's hope to see 

Aught that beseems a man in thee. 

Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 

Must pore where babbling waters flow, 

And watch unfolding roses blow. 

Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 

Thy listless eyes so much admire, 

Would lend thee something of his fire ! 

Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 

By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 

Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 

Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 

Nor strike or>e stroke for life and death 

Against the curs of Nazareth ! 

Go — let thy less than woman's hand 

Assume the distaff — not the brand. 

But, Harouu !— to my daughter speed: 

And hark — of thine own head take heed — 

If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 

Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string !» 



V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

« Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire !» 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career, 
And glances even of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done ; 
He saw rebellion there begun : 

« Come hither, boy, — what, no reply ? 
I mark thee, and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou darest not do : 
But if thy beard had manlier length, 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own, perchance. » 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance — 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 

« Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy ; 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
•I would not trust that look or tone: 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard— no more — 
I '11 watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab 5 to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight- 
But hark !— I hear Zuleika's voice; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

O ! more than even her mother dear, 

With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the desert-fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now.» 

VI. 
Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguil'd— and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendant vision 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above : 



i48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Was she — the daughter of that rude old chief, 
Who met the maid -with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the music breathing from her face, 6 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who bless'd 
His child caressing and caress'd, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt: 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart, though stern, could ever feel : 
Affection chain'd her to that heart; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

« Zuleika! child of gentleness! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman7 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou: 
His years need scarce a thought employ — 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger 8 what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will — 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'T was mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love thy lord may show.» 

VIII, 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head ■ 
And if her eye was fill'd with tears 

That stifled feeling dare not shed, 

And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
And red to pale, as through her ears 

Those winged words like arrows sped, 
What could such be but maiden fears ! 

So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 

Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 



So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 

Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 

Whate'er it was, -the sire forgot; 

Or, if remember'd, mark'd it not: 

Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed,9 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouque/ 
And mounting featly for the mead, 

With Maugrabee ll and Mamaluke, 
His way amid his Delis took,' 2 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jereed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Haram's massy doors. 

IX. 

His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt ' 3 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs <4 wild and loud — 
He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 

X. 

No word' from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
« How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet.» 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd: 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gulV 5 perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roof* 6 and marbled floor : 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address'd, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
« What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee! » 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern land — 
« He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offered by Zuleika's hand.» 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
« This rose, to calm my brother's cares, 
A message from the Bulbul '7 bears; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song : 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



J 49 



And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He 'Jl try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XL 

« What! not receive my foolish flower? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest: 
On me can thus thy forehead lower? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best? 
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest! 
Say, is it me thou hai'st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail 
Even from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn: 
Too well I know he loves thee not j 
But is Zuleika's love forgot? 
Ah ! deem I right? the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen, time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee: 
Even Azrael, 18 from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust!» 

XII. 

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt : 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high, 

From the black cloud that bound it," L 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd: 
« Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign: 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one. 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness : 



I would not wrong the slenderest hair 

That clusters round thy forehead fair, 

For all the treasures buried far 

Within the caves of Istakar. '9 

This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 

Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 

And Giaffir almost call'd me coward! 

Now I have motive to be brave, 

The son of his neglected slave — 

Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave — 

May show, though little apt to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 

Perchance I am, at least shall be; 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul, 

Holds not a Musselim's 20 control. 

Was he not bred in Egripo? 21 

A viler race let Israel show ! 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 

I 've partisans for peril's day : 

Think not I am what I appear ; 

I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near.» 

XIII. 

« Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest; 

But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before, 

It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day: 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than this; 
For, Alia! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire: 
More can I do, or thou require? 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We need so much of mystery? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
Yet be it, since thou say'st 't is well. 
Yet what thou mean st by ' arms ' and ' friends 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 



5o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy? 
These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth — my pride, and thine till now ? 
To meet the gaze of strangers' eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
IViy heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here, 
Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar, 22 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?» 

XIV. 

« Zuleika! to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet: 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There 's fearful news from Danube's banks ; 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. ' 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 
Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 

Unto thy cell will Selim come: 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep ; 

Nor these will rash intruder climb 

To list our words, or stint our time : 

And if he doth, I want not steel, 

Which some have felt, and more may feel. 

Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 

Than thou hast heard or thought before ; 

Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 

Thou know'st I hold a Haram key.» 

« Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 

Did word like this — » 

« Delay not thou: 

I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 

Have some, and hope of more reward. 

To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 

My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 

I am not, love! what I appear.» 



CANTO II. 



The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 

When love, who sent, forgot to save 

The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go; 
He could not see, he would not hear 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
« Ye waves, divide not lovers long !» — 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 



The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle! 

III. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own « broad Hellespont » 23 still dashes, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme ; 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Amnion's 2 4 son ran proudly round, 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone, 
But thou— 'thy very dust is gone! 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



5i 



Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter d lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 25 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet, 26 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next; 
And by her Comboloio 2 7 lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes; 
And many a bright emblazon' d rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather' d in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

And starting oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side? 

How teach her tender lips to chide ? 

VII. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What houri soothe him half so well ? 



VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot: 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 

Her Selim — « Oh ! can this be he ?» 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote: 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee. 28 

X. 

« I said I was not what I seem'd ; 

And now thou seest my words were true : 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide ; 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
But first — Oh! never wed another — 
Zuleika! I am not thy brother !» 

XL 

« Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill; 
But know me all I was before, 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 



52 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thou led'st me here perchance to kill; 
If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 

My breast is offer'd, take thy fill! 
Far better with the dead to be 
Than live thus nothing now to thee : 

Perhaps far worse, for now I know 

Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; 

And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child, 

For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 

If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 

My life, oh! bid me be thy slave !» 

XII. 

« My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thine : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran 2 9 verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy sire 's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Gain ; 3o 
He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

« How first their strife to rancour grew, 
If love or envy made them foes, 

It matters little if I knew ; 

In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 

In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 

Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 

And Paswan's 3 ' rebel hordes attest 

How little love they bore such guest: 

His death is all 1 need relate, 

The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; 

And how my birth disclosed to me, 

Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 

« When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band. 



They gave their horsetails 32 to the wind, 

And, mustering in Sophia's plain, 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom, subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, 33 nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

« The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 

In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd : 

Thou know'st not what in our Divan 

Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 

By him a brother's murder stain'd. 

T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 

His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 

Wouldst question whence ? Survey the waste, 

And ask the squalid peasant how 

His gains repay his broiling brow ? 

Why me the stern usurper spared, 

Why thus with me his palace shared, 

I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 

And little fear from infant's force ; 

Besides, adoption as a son 

By him whom Heaven accorded none, 

Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 

Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 

He cannot curb his haughty mood, 

Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

« Within thy father's house are foes; 

Not all who break his bread are true : 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few. 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ! alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray 'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate, 

And not in vain, it seems, essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



i53 



To this our Asiatic side, 

Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge— and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals. 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 

XVII. 

« All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'cr my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear: this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 
Whose laws and lives are on their swords; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill'd — once quaff d, they ne'er repine: 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 

« What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 

And taunted to a wish to roam ; 

And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft— Oh, Mahomet! how oft!— 

In full Divan the despot scoff d, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand. 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried, unknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaited'st there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giafhr's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd earth, ocean, sun, and sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine; 
The world — nay — heaven itself was mine ! 

XIX. 

« The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 



I long'd to see the isles that gem 

Old Ocean's purple diadem: 

I sought by turns, and saw them all ; 3 4 

But when and where I join'd the crew, 
With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
To tell thee when the tale 's complete. 



XX. 

« 'T is true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place: 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chief's command; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vowel for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even my own intents. 
And some— and 1 have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
The last of Lambro's 35 patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs 36 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch 3 7 roam, 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home! 3S 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are. more than cities and serais to me: 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale, 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow! 
But be the star that guides the wanderer, thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; 
The dove of peace and promise to mine ark! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call : 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; 
Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden 3 9 in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these. 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumber'd perils— but one only love ! 



1 54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
'1 hough fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
Be hut thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 
To (hee be Selim's tender as thine own; 
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside. 
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
By fatal nature to man's warring kind: 
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 
lint ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
Power sways but by division — her resource 
The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come 
When cities cage us in a social home : 
There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part! 
And woman, more than man, when death or woe 
Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 
Away suspicion! — not Zuleika's name ! 
But life is hazard at the best; and here 
No more remains to win, and much to fear: 
Yes, fear! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. 
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
Which love to-night hath promised to my sail: 
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms: 
Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 
Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
So that those arms cling closer round my neck: 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The war of elements no fears impart 
To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 
There lie the only rocks our course can check; 
Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 
But hence ye thoughts that rise in horror's shape ! 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close; 
Gf thine but one to waft us from our foes; 
Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline? 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine? 

XXI. 

« His head and faith from doubt and death 
Beturn'd in time my guard to save; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 

From isle to isle I roved the while : 

And since, though parted from my band 

Too seldom now I leave the land, 

No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 

Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 

I form the plan, decree the spoil, 

'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 

But now too long I 've held thine ear; 

Time presses, floats my bark, and here 

We leave behind but hate and fear. 



To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And would'st thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance his life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away — away! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Would'st thou recal thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest 1 — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head !» 

xxir. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother harden'd into stone; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

B.ut ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay' d to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

« Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brother !> 

Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 

The fearful lights are gleaming red; 

Nor these alone — for each right hand 

Is ready with a sheathless brand. 

They part, pursue, return, and wheel 

With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 

And last of all, his sabre waving, 

Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 

And now almost they touch the cave — 

Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — « 'Tis come — soon past — 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last: 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more.» 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; 

His pistol's echo rang on high. 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
« They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me die; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 

Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire: 
Yet stav within — here linger safe, 
At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 

Fear'st thou for him? — may I expire 

If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd; 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel? 
No — as each crest save his may feel!» 

XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand: 
Already at his feet hath sunk 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



1 55 



The foremost of the prying baml, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk: 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars' length— 
His comrades strain with desperate strength- 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray; 
"Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water! 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed it's force to feel, 

Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 

To where the strand and billows met : 

There as his last step left the land, 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashiug spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
« So may the foes of Giaffir fall !» 
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang? 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err, 
'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
]f aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows choak'd the tone ! 

xxvr. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are sdent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore? 

Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep 

Go, seek them where the surges sweep 

Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 



The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levell'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone, 4° 
That heart hath burst— that eye was closed — 

Yea — closed before his own ! 

XXVII. 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! 

And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : 

Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late; 

He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
Can he not hear 

The loud Wul-wulleh4» warn his distant ear? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Korau-chaunters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 

Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
Tell him thy tale! 

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 

He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill; 

Burst forth in one wild cry— and all was still. 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave! 

Ah ! happy! but of life to lose the worst! 

That grief— though deep— though fatal— was thy first ! 

Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 

Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse! 

And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies! 

The worm that will not sleep— and never dies^ 

Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 

That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 

That winds around, and tears the quivering heart! 

Ah! wherefore not consume it — and depart! 

Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief? 

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah— Selim bled. 

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 

Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
Thy daughter's dead! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The Star bath set that shone on Helle's stream. 

What quench'd its ray?— the blood that thou hast shed ! 

Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 

« Where is my child?»— an echo answers— «Where?» 4- 

XXVIII. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 
That shine beneath, while dark above 



1 56 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The sad but living cypress glooms 

And -withers not, though branch and leaf 

Arc stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Even in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 
May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be uo earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 
A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
Hut soft as harp that houri strings 

His long entrancing note! 
It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its sound 

Into Zuleika's name. 43 
'T is from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix' d pillar to the shore ; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell : 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there, by night, reclined, 't is said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head: 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'T is named the « Pirate-phantom's pillow !» 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourished ; fjourisheth this hour, 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale ! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 146, line 8. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
« Gul,» the rose. 

Nole 2. Page 146, line 17. 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
u Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 
« With whom revenge is virtue." 

Young's Revenge. 

Note 3. Page 147, line 3i. 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

Note 4- Page 147, line 32. 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour. 
Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight. 

Note 5. Page 147, line io3. 
He is an Arab to my sight. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
ment a hundredfold) even more than they hate the 
Christians. 

Note 6. Page 148, line 12. 
The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
This expression has met with objections. I will not 
refer to « him who hath not Music in his soul,» but 
merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, 
the features of the woman whom he believes to be the 
most beautiful; and if he then does not comprehend 
fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, 1 shall 
be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the 
latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps, 
of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate com- 
parison excited by that analogy) between « painting 
and music, » see vol. iii. cap. 10. De L'Allemagne. And 
is not this connexion still stronger with the original 
than the copy ? with the colouring of nature than of 
art? After all, this is rather to be felt than described; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, at 
least they would have done had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; 
for this passage is not drawn from imagination but 
memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- 
holds the reflection multiplied! 

Note 7. Page 148, line 34. 
But yet the line of Garasman. 
Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the prin- 
cipal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those 
who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on con- 
dition of service, are called Timariots : they serve as 
Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and bring 
a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. 

Note 8. Page 148, line 46. 

And teach the messenger what fate. 
When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the 
order for his death, is strangled instead, and some- 
times five or six, one after the other, on the same 
errand, by command of the refractory patient; if, on 
the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



1 5 



Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with 
great complacency. In 1810, several of these presents 
were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; among 
others, the head of the Pacha of Dagdat, a brave young 
man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resist- 
ance. 

Note 9. Page 148, line 65. 
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed. 
Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks 
hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have 
no bells. 

Note 10. Page 148, line 66. 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouque. 

Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball -which contains 
the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in posses- 
sion of the wealthier orders. 

Note 11. Page 148, line 68. 
With Maugrabee and Maraaluke. 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 

Note 12. Page 148, line 69. 
His way amid his Delis took. 
Delis, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
and always begin the action. 

Note i3. Page 148, line 81. 
Careering cleave the folded felt. 
A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice 
by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
through it at a single stroke: sometimes a tough tur- 
ban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a 
game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 

Note 14. Page 148, line 84. 
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — 
« 011ahs,» Alia il Allah, the « Leilies,» as the Spanish 
poets call them, the sound is OUah ,• a cry of which 
the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, 
particularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but 
mostly in battle. Their animation in the held, and 
gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, 
form an amusing contrast. 

Note 1 5. Page 148, line io3. 
The Persian Atar-gul's perfume. 

« Atar-gul,» ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

Note 16. Page 148, line io5. 

The pictured roof and marble floor. 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in great 
houses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of 
Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble 
contempt of perspective; below, arms, scimitars, etc. 
are in in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 

Note 17. Page 148, line 121. 
A message from the Bulbul bears. 
it has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
« Lover of the rose » are sad or merry ; and Mr Fox's 
remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the 
subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
though a little inclined to the « errare mallem,» etc. 
if Mr Fox was mistaken. 



Note 18. Page 149, line 33. 
Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. 
« Azrael »— the angel of death. 

Note 19. Page 149, line 67. 
Within the caves of Istakar. 
The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. See D'Her- 
belot, article Istakar. 

Note 20. Page 149, line 83. 
Holds not a Musselim's control. 
Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; 
a Waywode is the third; and then come the Agas. 

Note 21. Page 149, line 84. 

Was he not bred in Egripo ? 

Egripo— the Negropont. According to the proverb, 

the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the 

Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective 

races. 

Note 22. Page i5o, line 3i. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar. 
« Tchocadar » — one of the attendants who precedes 
a man of authority. 

Note 23. Page i5o, line 101. 
Thine own u broad Hellespont" still dashes. 
The wrangling about this epithet, « the broad Hel- 
lespont » or the « boundless Hellespont,» whether it 
means one or the other, or what it means at all, has 
been beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard 
it disputed on the spot ; and not foreseeing a speedy 
conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with 
swimming across it in the mean time, and probably 
may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the 
question as to the truth of « the tale of Troy divine » 
still continues, much of it resting upon the talismanic 
word « cnxsipcx; :» probably Homer had the same no- 
tion of distance that a coquette has of time, and when 
he talks of boundless, means half a mile; as the latter, 
by a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, 
simply specifies three weeks. 

Note 24. Page i5o, line 112. 
Which Amnion's son ran proudly round. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
with laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
calla in his race. It is believed that the last also poi- 
soned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new Pa- 
troclean games. I have seen the sheep feeding on the 
tombs of jEsietes and Antilochus ; the first is in the cen- 
tre of the plain. 

Note 25. Page i5i, line 12. 
O'er which her fairy fingers ran. 
When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a per- 
fume, which is slight, but not disagreeable. 

Note 26. Page i5i, line i5. 
Her mother's sainted amulet. 
The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed 
in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn 
round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still univer s al in the 
East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second cap. 
of the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, 
and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, 
as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 27. Page i5i, line 18. 
And by her coraboloio lies. 
«Comboloio »— a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter igno- 
rance; but many of the Turkish girls are highly ac- 
complished, though not actually qualified for a Chris- 
tian coterie ; perhaps some of our own « blues » might 
not be the worse for bleaching. 

Note 28. Page i5i, line 96. 
In him was some young Galiongee, 
« Galiongee » — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- 
ish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the 
guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the 
Capitau Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of 
incog. Their legs, however, are generally naked. The 
buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with 
silver, are those of an Arnaout robber, who was my host 
(he had quitted the profession), at his Pyrgo, near Gas- 
touni in the Morea ; they were plated in scales one over 
the other, like the back of an armadillo. 

Note 29. Page i52, line 17. 

So may the Koran verse displayed. 
The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- 
times the name of the place of their manufacture, but 
more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. 
Amongst those in my possession is oue with a blade of 
singular construction; it is very broad, and the edge 
notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, 
or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian who 
sold it, what possible use such a figure could add : he 
said, in Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussul- 
mans had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
wound; and liked it because it was « piu feroce.» I 
did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its 
peculiarity. 

Note 3o. Page i52, line 32. 

But like the nephew of a Cain. 
It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing 
or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or 
Gain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; 
indeed the former profess to be much better acquainted 
with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than 
is warranted by our own Sacred writ, and not content 
with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. 
Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses 
a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika 
is the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour 
with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their 
language. It is therefore no violation of costume to put 
the names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 

Note 3i. Page i52, line 48. 

And Paswan's rebel hordes attest. 
Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last 
years of his life set the whole power of the Porte at 
defiance. 

Note 32. Page ljSa, line 60. 
They gave their horsetails to the wind. 
Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. . 

Note 33. Page i52, line 73. 

He drank one draught, nor needed more ! 
Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 



sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, 
in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while 
I was in the country, married the daughter of his vic- 
tim, some years after the event had taken place at a 
bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed 
in the cup of coffee, which is presented before the sher- 
bet by the bath-keeper, after dressing. 

Note 34. Page 1 53, line 64. 
I sought by turns, and saw them all. 
The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

Note 35. Page i53, line 87. 
The last of Lambro's patriots there. 
Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
1789-90 for the independence of his country: aban- 
doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said 
to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Piiga are the two 
most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 

Note 36. Page 1 53, line 91. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 
« Rayahs, » all who pay the capitation-tax, called the 
«Haratch.» 

Note 37. Page i53, line g5. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 
This first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

Note 38. Page 1 53, line 96. 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home. 
The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko- 
mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern 
travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself 
cannot be denied. A young French renegado confessed 
to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, 
galloping in the desert, without a sensation approaching 
to rapture, which was indescribable. 

Note 3g. Page i53, line 116. 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
« Jannat al Aden,» the perpetual abode, the Mussul- 
man Paradise. 

Note 40. Page i55, line 78. 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone. 

A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 
only. 

Note 41. Page i55, line 87. 

The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. The « silent 
slaves >> are the men whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint in public. 

Note 42. Page i55, line 123. 
"Where is my child?"— an echo answers— "Where?" 
« I came tG the place of my birth and cried, ' the 
friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo an- 
swered, 'where are they?'» 

From an Arabic MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the text 
is taken) must be already familiar to every reader— it 
is given in the first annotation, page 67, of «The Plea- 
sures of Memory ;» a poem so well known as to render 
reference almost superfluous ; but to whose pages all 
will be delif.hted.to recur. 



THE CORSAIR. 



Note 43. Page i56, line 47. 

Into Zuleika's name. 

* And airy tongues that syllable men's names." 

Milton. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form 
of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttle- 
ton's ghost story ; the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, 
that George I flew into her window in the shape of a 



raven (see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other in- 
stances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most 
singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who believ- 
ing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing-bird, 
literally furnished her pew in the Cathedral with cages- 
full of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress 
in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her 
harmless folly. — For this anecdote see Orford's Letters. 



A TALE. 



Isuoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno. 

TASSO, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Liberata. 



TO 

THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
MY DEAR MOORE, 

I dedicate to you the last production with which I 
shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning 
my pages with a name consecrated by unshaken public 
principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. 
While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
triots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint- 
ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to 
the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification 
derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
of its renewal,whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will 
be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling 
of her daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, when 
he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not 
aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your 
imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded 
sky; but wilduess, tenderness, and originality are part 
of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
have already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject ou which all men 

are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? — Self. 

I have written much, and published more than enough 

to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but for 

some years to come it is my intention to tempt, no 

further the award of « Gods, men, nor columns." In 

the present composition I have attempted not the most 

I difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our 

I language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 

j The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified 

' for narrative; though I confess, it is the measure most 



after my own heart : Scott alone, of the present gene- 
ration, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal 
facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least 
victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, 
Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons 
that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough 
and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic 
couplet is not the most popular measure certainly; but 
as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former circulation is 
part of my present and will be of my future regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of « drawing from self,» the pictures are 
probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; 
but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when 1 see several bards (far more deserving, 
I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
nevertheless, might be found with little more morality 
than « The Giaour,» and perhaps — but no — I must admit 
Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 
« alias » they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, 
the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits 
me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 

most truly and affectionately, 
his obedient servant, 
BYRON. 

January 2, 1814. 



6o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO I. 



nessun mar>gior dolore, 

Qie ricordarsi del tempo felico 

Nellu rniseria, 

DANTE. 



« O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, , 
Survey our empire and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wavej 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please !- 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense— the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose: 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life; 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife? 
Let him who crawls euamour'd of decay, 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away, 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head; 
Ours — the fresh turf — and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul, 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave: 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted noiv.'n 

II. 

-Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while; 
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
And unto ears as rugged seemed a song! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine: 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
While others straggling muse along the shore; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set, 
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net; 



Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chief's allotment this, 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief? his name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish' d by that abstinence. 

« Steer to that shore !»— they sail. «Do this !»— 'tis done: 

«Now form and follow me!» — the spoil is won. 

Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 

And all obey and few inquire his will; 

To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye, 

Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 

« A sail ! — a sail !» a promised prize to hope ! 

Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope? 

No prize, alas! — but yet a welcome sail : 

The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 

Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 

Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 

Already doubled is the cape — our bay 

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes! 

Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 

She walks the waters like a thing of life, 

And seems to dare the elements to strife. 

Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sails are furl'd, and, anchoring, round she swings : 

And gathering loiterers on the land discern 

Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 

'T is mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout !— the friendly speech ! 

When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 

The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 

And the heart's promise of festivity! 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word. 
« Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them? will their accents bless? 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly died — but who are safe? 



THE CORSAIR. 



16: 



Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the douht from these delighted eyes!» — 

VI. 

« Where is our chief? for him we hear report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our coming— short; 

Yet, thus sincere — 't is cheering, though so brief; 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 

Our greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn. » 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 

By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst; 

From crag to cliff they mount. — Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave? 

In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand. 

« 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan! on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 
Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
« These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, 
Much that»— «Peace,peace!»— Hecutstheirpratingshorl 
Wondering they turn, abash'd while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — « My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo?» 

« In the anchor'd bark.» 
« There let him stay — to him this order bear. 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share. » 
« To-night, Lord Conrad ?» 

« Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that, free from rust, 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal- gun be duly fired 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired.» 

VIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 



That man of loneliness and mystery, 

Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 

Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 

And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ■ 

Still sways their souls with that commanding art 

That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 

What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 

Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? 

What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? 

The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 

Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 

That moulds another's weakness to its will; 

Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 

Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own, 

Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 

The many still must labour for the one ! 

T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils 

Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 

Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 

How light the balance of his humbler pains! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eye-brow shades a glance of fire : 

Robust, but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 

Still seems there something he would not have seen : 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplexd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye. 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought than drag that chiefs to day. 

There was a laughing devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled— and Mercy sigh'd farewell! 



Slight are the outward signs of evil thought; 
Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought! 
Love shows all changes— hate, ambition, guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile: 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 

21 



162 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Then — -with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart, 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark— how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free? 

XI. 

Yet was not Conrad thus by nature sent 

To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument : 

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct tiiere a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Dooin'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still; 

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her force, 

He hated man too much to feel remorse, 

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 

To pay the injuries of some on all. 

He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 

The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; 

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 

He knew himself detested, but he knew 

The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded too. 

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 

From all affection and from all contempt: 

His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 

But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. 

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 

The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 

The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 

Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 

And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 

XII. 

None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 

One softer feeling would not yet depart: 

Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 

By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 

Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 

And even in him it asks the name of love! 

Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged; 

Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 

He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by; 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 

Yes — it was love — if thoughts of tenderness, 

Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 

And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time; 



Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile 
Could render sullen, were she near to smile; 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one! 

XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 

Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 

« Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 

Nor know I why this next appears the last! 

Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 

Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate; 

And, if my plan but hold, and fortune smile, 

We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 

Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 

Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 

To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora — Oh! my sinking heart, 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 

Yet was 1 brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 

Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. 

This common courage which with brutes we share, 

That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 

Small merit claims — but 't was my nobler hope 

To teach my few with numbers still to cope : 

Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed ; 

No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 

So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 

My lot hath long had little of my care, 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare. 

Is this my skill ? my craft? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 

Oh, fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 

She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late.» 

XIV. 
Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 



« Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
Then trembles into silence as before. 



« There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



THE CORSAIR. 



63 



« Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline : 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 



« My fondest — faintest — latest — accents hear : 
Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ,• 

Then give me all I ever asked — a tear, 

The first— last — sole reward of so much love!» 

He pass'd the portal— cross'd the corridor, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 
« My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — » 

« In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray ; 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ,• 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon-fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 't was noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 't was thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth ; and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here : 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will !» 

«Yea, strange indeed, that heart hath long been changed : 

Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, 

Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 

Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 

My very love to thee is hate to them, 

So closely mingling here, that, disentwined, 

I cease to love thee when I love mankind. 

Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 

Assures the future that my love will last. 

But— Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 

This hour again — but not for long — we part.» 

« This hour we part! — my heart foreboded this : 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay ; 



Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew. 

My love! thou mock'st my weakness; and wouldst steel 

My breast before the time when it must feel : 

But trifle now no more with my distress, 

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 

Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest! come and share 

The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 

Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 

See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 

And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 

At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill 

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 

Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 

See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 

The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears ! 

Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice, 

What others deem a penance is thy choice. 

But come, the board is spreid ; our silver lamp 

Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 

Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 

And join with me the dance, or wake the song; 

Or my guitar, which still thou lovest to hear, 

Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 

We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. * 

>Yhy — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 

To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 

Or even that traitor chief — I 've seen thee smile, 

When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 

Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 

And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 

Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 

Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 

And he deceived me — for — he came again !» 

« Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return : but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing. 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared . 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 't is the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 

One kiss — one more — another — oh ! adieu !» 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In ail the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full— that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ? 
It told 't was sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd ; 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly carcss'd ! 



64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And, tottering to the couch, his hride he hore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt — that for him earth held hut her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone? 

XV. 

« And is he gone ?» — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 

« T was but an instant past — and here he stood I 

And now» — without the portal's port she rush'd, 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 

Dig — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 

But still her lips refused to send — « farewell !» 

For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of that still pale face, 

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase ; 

The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 

Till — oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 

And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim 

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes, dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 

« He 's gone !» — against her heart that hand is driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven. 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 

« It is no. dream— and I am desolate !» 



XVI. 

From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 

That liail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 

And she — the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 

On her he must, not gaze, he must not think — 

There he might rest, but on destruction's brink. 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; 

Cut no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 

And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 

Again he hurries on, and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar, 

As marks his eye the sea-boy on the mast, 

The anchor's rise, the sails unfurling fast, 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 

And, more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 

He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 

Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 

He feels of all his former self possest; 

He bounds— he flies— until his footsteps reach 

The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 

There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 

Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 

Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 



For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud. 
His was th«j lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-horn eye, 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent : 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And other's gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echoed to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard; 
Before him Juan stands — « Are ail prepared ?» 

« They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief »> 

« My sword and my capote. 
So firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung. 
« Call Pedro here !» — He comes — and Conrad bends, 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
« Beceive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine !» 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves, phosphoric 2 brightness broke; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands ; 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands : 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ! 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 

And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 

Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart,. 

And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 

They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 

To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? 

Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 

And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 

Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 

To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 

And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 

Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 

Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 

The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 

Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 

And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



65 



Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO II. 



Conosceste i dubiosi desiri ? 

DANTE. 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
"When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home. 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast : 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill ; 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore, and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek. 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay — 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses till the coast is clear. 

II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice, 3 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long Chibouque's 4 dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas 5 to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep. 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pachas boast. 

III. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, w!;ose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head— his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 



« A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped is here — himself would tell the rest.» 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seemd of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 
« Whence com'st thou, Dervise ?» 

« From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — » 

«Thy capture where and when?» 
« From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The PiOvers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can fear ?» 

u How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?)) 

« Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 

I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; 

I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 

Too bright — too blue — for my captivity; 

And felt— that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 

Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 

This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape, 

They little deem of aught in peril's shape; 

Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 

That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance: 

The careless guard that did not see me fly, 

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 

Pacha ! my limbs are faint — and nature craves 

Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves ; 

Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 

With all around! — now grant repose — release.)) 

« Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear? obey! 
More I must ask — and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting. 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery. » 

'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan; 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Nor show'd high relish for the hanquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook. 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd, as if some poison mingled there ; 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
« What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt— that sacred pledge 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !» 

« Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's 6 laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread, nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

« Well, as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 

How many ? Ha! it cannot sure be day ! 

What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 

It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 

Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 

The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! 

Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now ?> 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 7 
lie saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast— but shrilly blew ; 
'T is answer'd — « Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career? 
And deem design had left me single here ?» 



Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 

Sheds fast atonement for its first delay; 

Completes his fury, what their fear began, 

And makes the many basely quail to one. 

The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 

Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, surprise, 

Retreats before him, though he still defies. 

No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 

So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 

His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ; 8 

For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 

And burst within — and it were death to wait; 

Where wild amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 

The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within 

Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 

Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 

They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 

A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 

But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 

« *T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die. 

Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 

Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?» 



Quick at the word — they seize him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock'd at that heart unmov'd by battle's yell. 

« Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not, on your lives 

One female form — remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage vengeance will repay; 

Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 

Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live. 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime. » 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor; 

His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search— they find— they save : with lusty arms 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 

Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 

With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 

So well could Conrad^tame their fiercest mood, 

And check the very hands wi«h gore imbrued. 

But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ! 

The Haram queen— but still the slave of Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,9 

Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 

The foe before retiring fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 



THE CORSAIR. 



This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 

Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 

And hlushes o'er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il Alia! Vengeance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 

The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife, 

And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd: 

« One effort — one — to break the circling hcst!» 

They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 

Hopeless not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more — 

Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er; 

Dut each strikes singly, silently, and home, 

And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 

His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 

Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first ere came the rallying host to blows, 

And rank to rank and hand to hand oppose, 

Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 

Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 

By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 

And dried those tears for4ife and fame that flow'd ; 

And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 

Becall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 

Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 

That smoothed his accents, softcn'd in his eye: 

T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 

Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 

The Pacha Avoo'd as if he deem'd the slave 

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave; 

The Corsair vow'd protection, sooth'd affright, 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

« The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female, vain — 

Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 

The life — my loving lord remember'd not!» 

VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 

But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 

Far from his band, and battling with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost. 

Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 

And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought; 

Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 

While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plaus of pain, 

And staunch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 

But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 

Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 

Can this be he ! triumphant late she saw, 

When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 

'T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest, 

His sole regret the life he still possest ; 

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 

Oh ! were there none, of all the many given, 

To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? 



Must he alone of all retain his breath, 

Who more than all had striven and struck for death? 

He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 

When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 

For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 

Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 

He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride 

That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 

Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen; 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 

But few that saw — so calmly gazed around: 

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 

Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 

The better warriors who beheld him near, 

Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; 

And the grim guards that to his durance led, 

In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 



IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there 

To note how much the life yet left could bear; 

He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 

And promise feeling for the wrench of pain. 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 

Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 

And, rising with the wonted blush of morn, 

Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 

Of torments this the longest and the worst, 

Which adds all other agony to thirst, 

That day by day death still forbears to slake, 

While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 

« Oh! water — water !» — smiling hate denies 

The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 

This was his doom: — the Leech, the guard were gone, 

And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 



X. 

'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew— 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent remorse; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries, « 1 warn'd thee!» when the deed is o'er. 
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
All rushing through their thousand avenues, 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; 
The hopeless past; the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 

That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till pride awake, 

To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 

Ay — pride can veil, and courage brave it all, 

All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 

[The only hypocrite deserving praise: 

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 

But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 

So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near! 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower, 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shar'd the same. 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
One thought alone he could not — dared not meet. 
« Oh! how these tidings will Medora greet ?» 
Then — only then— his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 
But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
« And now come torture when it will — or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day.» 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 

'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
Disguised, discovered, conquering, ta'en, condemn'd — 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 

Was hush'd so deep — ah ! happy if in death ! 

He slept — who o'er his placid slumber bends? 

His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends. 

Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 

No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face! 

Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 

Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 

And once unclosed — but once may close again. 

That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 

And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; 

With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 

That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 

Through guards and dunnest night how came it there? 

Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare, 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare? 

She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 

She left his side — his signet ring she bore, 

Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 



And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more ; 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder : « Can he calmly sleep, 

While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 

And mine in restlessness are wandering here— 

What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 

True — 't is to him my life, and more I owe, 

And me and mine he spared from worse than woe: 

T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 

How heavily he sighs! — he starts — awakes !» 

He raised his head— and, dazzled with the light, 

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 

Too harshly told him that he lived again. 

« What is that form? if not a shape of air, 

Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair !» 

« Pirate ! thou know'st me not— but I am one 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done : 
Look on me — and remember her thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die.» 

« If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight: 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine.» 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

Till even the scaffold 10 echoes with their jest! 

Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 

And 'these his accents had a sound of mirth, 

As if the last he could enjoy on earth; 

Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 

XIV. 
« Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have power 
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow; 
But all I can, I will: at least, delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.» 

« Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 



THE CORSAIR. 



% 



Unfit to vanquish— shall I meanly fly, 

The one of all my band that would not die? 

Yet there is one— to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these— my bark, my sword, my love, my God ! 

The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — ■ 

And man but works his will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 

Wrung from the coward-crouching of despair: 

It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 

That might have better kept so true a brand; 

My bark is sunk or captive ; but my love — 

For her in sooth my voice would mount above. 

Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind — 

And this will break a heart so more than kind, 

And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare! 

Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair.» 

« Thou lovest another then?— but what to me 
Is this — t' is nothing — -nothing e'er can be: 
Rut yet — thou lovest — and — oh! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose; 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought.» 

« Lady, methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb.» 

« My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — no— no — not my love: 

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 

To meet his passion — but it would not be. 

I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 

I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 

To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 

Oft must my soul the question undergo, 

Of — 'Dost thou love?' and burn to answer 'No !' 

Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 

And struggle not to feel averse in vain; 

But harder still the hearts recoil to bear, 

And hide from one — perhaps another there. 

He takes the hand I give not, nor withhold — 

Tts pulse nor check'd, nor quicken' d — calmly cold: 

And, when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 

From one I never loved enough to hate. 

No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 

And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 

Yes — had 1 ever proved that passion's zeal, 

The change to hatred were at least to feel. 

But still he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 

And oft when present — absent from my thought. 

Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 

I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust. 

I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 

T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 

Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 

Or seek another and give mine release, — 

But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 

Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 

Remember, captive! 'tis to break thy chain ^ 

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; 

To give thee back to all endear'd below, 

Y* r ho share such love as I can never know. 

Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 

T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !» 



XV. 

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here? and is he now alone? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 

That starts at once— bright — pure— from pity's mine, 

Already polish'd by the hand divine! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear— 

in woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 

That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield: 

Avoid it — virtue ebbs and wisdom errs, 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven : 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe! 

XVF. 
T is morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! 



CANTO III. 



Come vedi— ancor non m' abbandona. 

DA.NTE. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills, the setting sun ; 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws 

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 

On old iEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 

O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 

Though there his altars are no more divine. 

Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis! 

Their azure arches, through the long expanse 

More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven : 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last, 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's " latest day! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still. 



7° 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before; 
But, ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff d — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymeltus to the plain, 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign. l2 

No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 

With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, 

There the white column greets her grateful ray, 

And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret. 

The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 

The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, 13 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 

All tinged with varied hues ; arrest the eye, 

And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 

Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 

That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. '£ 

II. 

Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee? 

Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 

So much its magic must o'er all prevail? 

Who that beheld that sun upon thee set, 

Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? 

Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 

Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 

Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 

Would that with freedom it were thine again! 

III. 

The sun hath sunk, and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heart : the third day 's come and gone — 
With it he comes not— sends not — faithless one! 
The wind was fair though light, and storms were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had past 
In watching all that hope proclaim'd a mast; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away: 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense! 



It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 

Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought, 

Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 

Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 

In silence, darkling, each appear' d to wait 

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate. 

Something they would have said; but seem'd to fear 

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 

She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not : 

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 

Within that meek fair form were feelings high, 

That deem'd not till they found their energy. 

While yet was Hope — they soften d — flutter' d — wept : 

All lost — that softness died not — but it slept; 

And o'er its slumber rose that strength which said, 

« With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread. » 

'T is more than nature's: like the burning might 

Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

« Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 

What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well: 

Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 

The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

« Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound, and bleeding — but alive. » 

She heard no further — 't was in vain to strive, 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
stood; 
Her own dark soul these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies; 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain, till life returns anew; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale, too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rsecue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his captive's fate ; 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell. 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind, 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy : 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, ' 5 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

« Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest 
Sits triumph — Conrad taken— fall'n the rest ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



I7r 



His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate. 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold. 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard— 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! 
While haffled, weaken'd hy this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey: 
But once cut off — the remnant of his hand 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand. » 

« Gulnare! if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer' d rich as Stamboul's diadem , 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 

It had not now redeem'd a single hour, 

But that I know him fetterd, in my power; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack and latest kill.» 

« Nay, Seyd! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 

Too justly moved for mercy to assuage; 

My thoughts were only to secure for thee 

His riches — thus released, he were not free : 

Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 

His capture could but wait thy first command. » 

« His capture could! — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe! — at whose remonstrance? — thine! 

Fair suitor! to thy virtuous gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear? 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

'T is not his life alone may claim such care! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 

I then had mourn d thee with a lover's woe : 

Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 

Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe!» 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew : 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; 
Still half-unconscious — heedless of his wrath. 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 



Again his rage repell'd — until arose 

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long-anxious — weary — still — the same 

Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror tame : 

This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 

When every step that echo'd by the gate, 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 

When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might be the last that he could ever hear; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die : 

'T was worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 

That conflict deadlier far than all before. 

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 

But bound and fix'd in fetterd solitude, 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood; 

To gaze on thine own heart, and meditate 

Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 

Too late the last to shun — the first to mend ; 

To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 

With not a friend to animate, and tell 

To other cars that death became thee well; 

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 

And blot life's latest scene with calumny; 

Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear; 

But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 

To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 

The life thou leavest below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Of earthly hope — thy loved oue from thee riven : 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 

And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill? 

Since not to sink beneath is something still! 

VII. 

The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 

The second — third — and still she came not there; 

But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 

Or else he had not seen another sun. 

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. 

Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; 

And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 

Roused by the roar of his own element! 

Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 

And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; 

And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 

A long-known voice — alas ! too vainly near! 

Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, 

Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud • 

And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar. 

To him more genial than the midnight star. 

Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, 

And hoped that peril might not prove in vain : 

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 

One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 

His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 

The storm roll'd onward and disdain' d to strike; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Its peal wax'd fainter— ceased — he felt alone, 

As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door, 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once more : 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame. 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — « Thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die, there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse. » 

« Lady ! I look to none ; my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same. 
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed.» 

« Why should I seek? because — oh! didst thou not 

Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? 

Why should I seek? — hath misery made thee blind 

To the fond workings of a woman's mind? 

And must I say? albeit my heart rebel 

With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 

Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 

It fear'd thee — thank'dthee — pitied — madden'd — loved! 

Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 

Thou lovest another — and I love in vain ; 

Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 

I rush through peril which she would not dare. 

If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 

Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 

An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam! 

What hath such gentle dame to do with home? 

But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 

Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread. 

If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, 

Receive this poniard — rise and follow me!» 

« Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?» 

« Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard, 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here could I rema.in 7 

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed! 

I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 

Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and it shall be avenged : 

Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile! — but he had little cause to sneer : 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear. 

But he has said it — and the jealous well, 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretel. 



I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring; he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'T was false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What ! am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own—for all prepared : 

Thou lovest me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that hatred, are the first. 

Oh! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not 

start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an eastern heart; 
'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seytl!» 

« Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low. 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand ; 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest!» 

«Rest ! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
My life — my love — my hatred — all below 
Are on this cast, Corsair! — 't is but a blow! 
Without it flight were idle — how evade 
His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 
One blow shali cancel with our future fears; 
But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 
The guards are gain'd— one moment all were o'er : 
Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 
If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud- 
Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud.» 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 



THE CORSAIR. 



i 7 3 



Since bar and bolt no more bis steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter' d limbs allow, pursued. 

T was dark and winding, and be knew not where 

That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak? 

Chance guides bis steps — a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air ; 

He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved, a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past, 

Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 't is she at last ! 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 

« Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill!» 

Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leauing head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot— 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime— 't is blood ! 

X. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 

O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown; 

He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain 

Yet on his arms might ever there remain : ■ 

Lut ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 

As now they froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak 

Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 

Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 

It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

« T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand. » 

XII. 

She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind! 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; 



Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 
Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review! 
Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest — 
«Thou mayst forgive though Alla's self detest; 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Pieproach me — but not yet — Oh! spare me now! 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt.» 

XV. 

She wrongs bis thoughts, they more himself upbraid 

Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made; 

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 

They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; 

Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 

A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 

Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

Aud ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near, 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance; 

«'T is mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 

I am not all deserted on the main !» 

They own the signal, answer to the hail, 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

«T is Conrad! Conrad !» shouting from the deck, 

Command nor duty could their transport check ! 

With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 

A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace, 

He, half-forgetting danger and defeat, 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 

Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 

And feels he yet can conquer and command! 

XVT. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow. 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS, 



They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah! could he less? 

Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 

What she has done no tears can wash away, 

And heaven must punish on its angry day. 

But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 

For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; 

And he was free! — and she for him had given 

Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 

And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 

Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 

Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and 

meek, 
But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
« Gulnare !» — but she replied not — « dear Gulnare !» 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then hadjoin'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That askd from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that frailty stole from faith — 
To lips where love had lavish'd all his breath, 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle ; 

To them the very rocks appear to smile; 

The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled foam? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 



He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 

'T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 

With the first boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Befused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — t is a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace; 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd; 
He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger' d there for day; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold! 

XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there; 
And the cold flowers' 6 her colder hand contain'd, 
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
And made it almost 'mockery yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below. 
Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind, 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here? 

XXI. 

He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 

By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 

It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how? 

The love of youth, the hope of better years, 

The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 

The only living thing he could not hate, 

Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 

But did not feel it less. The good explore, 

For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 



THE CORSAIR. 



I 7 5 



The proud — the -wayward — who have fix'd below 
Their joy — and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all— perchance a mite : 
But who in patience parts with all delight? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; 
So feeble now— his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which ihus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind 
On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 

His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; 

Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; 

Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 

Within the grot — like that had harden'd too; 

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 

But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock; 

If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 

Though dark the shade — it shelter'd, — saved till now. 

The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 

The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth : 

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 

Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, 

And of its cold protector, blacken round 

But shiver'd fragments on the barren greund ! 

XXIV. 

T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 

Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 

He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 

Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er: 

Another morn — another bids them seek, 

And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; 

Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 

They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 

Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 

'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away, 

And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 

Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 

Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; 

And fair the monument they gave his bride: 



For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds loo widely known; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. '7 



NOTES. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for the 
occurrences, but the whole of the JEgean isles are 
within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader 
must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often 
found it. 

Note i. Page i63, line 86. 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
Orlando, Canto 10. 

Note 2. Page i6/f, line 96. 

Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 

By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 

stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is 

followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the 

water. 



Note 3. Page i65, line 3a. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. 



Coffee. 



Note 4- Page i65, line ^1. 
The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 



Pipe. 



Note 5. Page i65, line 42. 
While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 

Dancing-girls. 

Note to Canto II. Page i65, line 55. 

It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
as a spy, is out of nature. — Perhaps so. — I find some- 
thing not unlike it in history. 

« Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of 
the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the 
colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of 
his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards 
mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is 
a fiction which would not have been imagined unless 
in the life of a hero.» Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VI. p. 180. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
ture, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coin- 
cidences which I have met with since writing «The 
Corsair. » 

« Eccelin prisonnier,» dit Rolandini, « s'enfermoit 
dans un silence menacant ; il fixoit sur la terre son visage 
feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde in- 
dignation.— De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les 
peuples accouroient. ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis 
si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. 

« Eccelin etoit d'une petite taille; mais tout 1' aspect 
de sa personne, tous ses mouvements indiquoient un 
soldat. — Son langage etoit amer, son deportement su- 
perbe — et par son seul regard il faisoit trembler les 
plus hardis.w Sismondi, tome iii. pp. 219, 220. 

« Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con- 
queror of both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocris, 



176 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone ra- 
rus, luxurise conternptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, 
adsollicitandasgentesprovidentissimus,»etc., e tc. Jor- 
nandes de Rebus Geticis, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep iu 
countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 

Note 6. Page 166, line 19. 
And my stern vow and order's laws oppose. 
The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
as the monks. 

Note 7. Page 166, line 54. 
They seize that Dervise '.—seize on Zatanai ! 
Satan. 

Note 8. Page 166, line 75. 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight. 
A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. « The 
Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked 
up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to 
quit the field. » 

Note 9. Page 166, line 119. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare. 
Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the 
flower of the pomegranate. 

Note 10. Page 168, line 100. 
Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest ! 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when grasping her neck, 
she remarked, that « it was too slender to trouble the 
headsman much.» During one part of the French Re- 
volution, it became a fashion to leave some <■<■ mot» as a 
legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken 
during that period would form a melancholy jest-book 
of a considerable size. 

Note 11. Page 169, line 11 3. 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- 
treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 
Note 12. Page 170, line 10. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country; the days in winter are longer, but in 
summer of shorter duration. 

Note 1 3. Page 170, line 20. 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk. 
The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall 
intervenes. — Cephisus stream is indeed scanty, and 
llissus has no stream at all. 

Note 14. Page 170, line 3o. 
That frown— where gemler ocean seems to smile. 
The opening lines as far as Section II have, perhaps, 
little business here, and were annexed to an unpub- 
lished (though printed) poem; but they were written 
on the spot in the spring of 1811, and— I scarce know 
why— the reader must excuse their appearance here if 
he can. (See Curse of Minerva, p. 189.) 
Note i5. Page 170, line 116. 
flits only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 

The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads arc 
in number ninety-nine. 



Note 16. Page 174, line 98. 
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd. 
In the'Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons 
to place a nosegay. 

Note 17. Page 175, line 65. 

Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
That the point of honour which is represented in 
one instance of Conrad's character has not been carried 
beyond the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in 
some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a 
brother buccaneer in the present year, 1814. 

Our readers have all seen the account of the enter- 
prise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, we be- 
lieve, were informed of the situation, history, or nature 
of that establishment. For the information of such as 
were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a 
friend the following interesting narrative of the main 
facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which 
cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 

Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of 
Mexico; it runs through a rich but very Hat country, 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, 
fifteen miles below the city of New-Orleans. The bay 
has branches almost innumerable, in which persons 
can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It com- 
municates with three lakes which lie on the south-west 
side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and 
which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island 
formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The 
east and west points of this island were fortified in the 
year 181 1, by a band of pirates, under the command of 
one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these out- 
laws are of that class of the population of the state of. 
Louisiana who fled from the island of St Domingo 
during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island 
of Cuba : and when the last war between France and 
Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that 
island with the short notice of a few davs. Without 
ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of 
them the State of Louisiana, with all the negroes they 
had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Go- 
vernor of that State of the clause in the constitution 
which forbad the importation of slaves; but, at the 
same time, received the assurance of the Governor that 
he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the ge- 
neral Government for their retaining this property. 

The Island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29. deg. 
1 5 min. Ion. 92. 3o. and is as remarkable for its health as 
for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its waters 
abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, 
had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 
i8i3, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, 
claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and 
to break up the establishment, he thought proper to 
strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward of 5oo 
dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well 
known to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, 
from his immediate connexion, and his once having been 
a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which 
art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a 
Captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor 
for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a 
reward from the latter of i5,ooo for the head of the 
Governor. The Governor ordered out a company to 



LARA. 



77 



march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to hum and 
destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New- 
Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the com- 
mand of a man who had heen the intimate associate of 
this bold Captain, approached very near to the fortified 
island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he 
heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it 
was he found himself surrounded by armed men,who had 
emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. 
Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed 
his few noble traits ; for to this man, who had come to 
destroy his life and all that was dear to him, he not only 
spared his life, but offered him that which would have 
made the honest soldier easy x for the remainder of his 
days, which was indignantly refused. He then, with the 
approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This 
circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our 
naval force having always been small in that quarter, 
exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment 
could not be expected from them until augmented; for 
an officer of the navy, with most of the gun-boats on that 
station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force of 
La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the navy 
authorised an attack, one was made ; the overthrow of 
this banditti has been the result ; and now this almost in- 
vulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an 
enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it by 
a strong military force. — From an American News- 
paper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical Dic- 
tionary, there is a singidar passage in his account of 
Archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- 
nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. 

« There is something mysterious in the history and 
character of Dr Blackbourne. The former is but im- 
perfectly known ; and report has even asserted he was 
a buccaneer: and that one of his brethren in that pro- 
fession having asked, on his arrival in England, what 
had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was an- 



swered, he is Arbhbishop of York. We are informed, 
that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 
1694, which office he resigned in 1702: but after his 
successor, Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. 
In the following year he became dean; and, in 1714, 
held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was con- 
secrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and 
translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
according to court scandal, for uniting George I to the 
Duchess of Slunster. This, however, appears to have 
been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved 
with great prudence, and was equaliv respectable as the 
guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whis- 
pered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a 
passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his 
weaknesses; but so far from being convicted bv seventy 
witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly 
criminated bv one. In short, I look upon these asper- 
sions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a 
buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black- 
bourne certainly was ? he who had so perfect a know- 
ledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek tra- 
gedians), as to be able to read them with the same ease 
as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains 
to acquire the learned languages, and have had both 
leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly 
educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is al- 
lowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, was 
turned against him, by its being said, 'he gained more 
hearts than souls.'» 

« The only voice that could soothe the passions of the 
savage (Alphonso 3d) was that of an amiable and vir- 
tuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of 
Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and 
the grand-daughter of Philip II, King of Spain. — Her 
dying words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce 
spirit melted into tears; and, after the last embrace, 
Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- 
parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
hfe.» — Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon, neiv edition, 
Svo, vol. 3. page 473. 



A TALE. 



CANTO I 



The serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain. 

And slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. 

The long self-exiied chieftain is restored : 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banuers on the wall ; 

Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze; 

And gay retainers gather round the hearth. 

With tongues all loudness, and with eves all mirth. 



The chief of Lara is return d again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know. 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe — 
That fearful empire, which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime : 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern' d men. 
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
His vouth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run. 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 



i7' 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



III. 

And Lara left iu youth his father-land; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recal. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined hride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died: 
« Yet doth he live?» exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred 'scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not, why they need not guess 

They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 

Not that he came, but came not long before .- 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay: 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary time. 

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch' d by time; 
His faults, whate'cr they were, if scarce forgot; 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
His soul in youth was haughtv, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 

Y. 

And they indeed were changed — ' t is quickly seen 

Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been : 

That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 

And spake of passions, but of passion past: 

The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 

A high demeanour, and a glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look; 

And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound : 

All these seem'd his, and something more beneath, 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 

Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; 

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments lighten' d o'er his livid face. 



VI. 

Not much he loved long question of the past. 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it. seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man; 
But what he had beheld heshunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; 
Born of high lineage, liuk'd in high command, 
He mingled with the magnates of his land; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away : 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they ajl pursued 
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Bepelld approach, and show'd him still alone; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear: 
And they the wiser, friendlier few, confest 
They deem'd him better than his air exprest. 

VIII. 

'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; 
Woman— the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or woe, 
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky: 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 



IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
From all communion he would start away: 
And then, his rarely-cali'd attendants said, 
Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd, « that must not be known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 
been. 



LARA. 



79 



Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 

Which hands profane had gather d from the dead, 

That still beside his open'd volume lay, 

As if to startle all save him away? 

Why slept lie not -when others were at rest? 

Why heard no music and received no guest? 

All was not well they deem'd— but where the wrong ] 

Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long ■ 

And such besides were too discreetly wise 

To more than hint their knowledge in surmise : 

But if they would — they could» — around the board, 

Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 

X. 

ft was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam : 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her love, 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now— 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt— unsparing— but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 

XI. 

He turn'd within his solitary hall, 

And his high shadow shot along the wall; 

There were the painted forms of other times, 

T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 

Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults 

That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults; 

And half a column of the pompous page, 

That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 

Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 

And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 

He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 

And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 

O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 

Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 

Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; 

His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 

And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 

Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 

His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'T was midnight — all was slumber; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 



Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frautic echo burst the sleeping ear? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch' d in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 
Cold as the marble where his length was laid. 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
Was Lara stretch'd; his half-drawn sabre near, 
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear. 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow; 
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay; 
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 
Some imprecation of despairing pride; 
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook. 
Even in its trance, the gladiator's look, 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 
And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
They raise bin! — bear him; hush! he breathes, he speaks 
The swarthy blush recolotirs in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly-quivering limb 
Recals its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue; 
Distinct, but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas! that cannot hear! 

XIV. 

His page approach'd, aud he alone appear <l 

To know the import of the words they heard; 

And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 

They were not such as Lara should avow. 

Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 

Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes; 

Dut Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 

And in that tongue which seein'd his own replied ; 

Aud Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 

To soothe away the horrors of his dream, 

If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 

A breast that heeded not ideal woe. 

XV. 

Whate'er his frenzy clream'd or eye beheld 

If yet remember d ne'er to be reveal'd, 

Rests at his heart. — The custom'd morning came, 

And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame; 

And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 

And, soon the same in movement and in speech. 

As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 

Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours 

Than these were wont; and if the coming night 

Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 

He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 

Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 

In trembling pairs (alone they dare not) crawl 

The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hail: 

The waving banner, and the clapping door. 

The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor, 



8o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 

Came not again, or Lara could assume 

A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 

His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 

Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored? 

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 

Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 

That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 

Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 

Those strange wild accents? his the cry that broke 

Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'erlabour'd heart 

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start? 

Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget, 

When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? 

Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 

Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 

In that corroding secrecy which guaws 

The heart to show the effect, but not the cause? 

Not so in him,- his breast had buried both, 

Nor common gazers could discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half-told ; 

They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and feard; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot ; 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

Theyguess'd — theygazed — they fain would know his fate. 

What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, 

Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known? 

A hater of his kind? Yet some Avould say, 

With them he could seem gay amidst the gay; 

But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near, 

Waned in its mirth, and wither' d to a sneer; 

That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by; 

None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 

Yet there was softness too in his regard, 

At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 

But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 

Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 

And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 

One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; 

In self-inflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest; 

In vigilance of grief that would compel 

The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

xvnr. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
« As if the worst had fall'n which could befal, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret ; 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth. 



His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 

And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 

With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent; 

And liery passions that had pour'd their wrath 

In hurried desolation o'er his path, 

And left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life: 

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 

He call'd on nature's self to share the shame, 

And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 

She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm; 

Till he at last confounded good and ill, 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good, 

But not in pity, not because he ought, 

But in some strange perversity of thought, 

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state: 

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own; 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 

His blood ia temperate seeming now would flow : 

Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 

But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd! 

'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 

Nor outraged reason's rules by flaw nor start — 

His madness was not of the head, but heart; 

And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 

His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 
With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember' d well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind; 
There he was stamp'd in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound; 
His presence haunted still; and from the breast 
He forced an all-unwilling interest: 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 



XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims 



LARA. 



Appear — a high-born and a -welcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
And the gay dance of bounding beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 

He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye, 

Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 

At length he caught it: 't is a face unknown, 

But seems as searching his, and his alone; 

Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen; 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze; 

On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw; 

Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 

Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXII. 

«'T is he!» the stranger cried, and those that heard, 

Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

« T is he !» — « 'T is who '» they question far and near, 

Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; 

So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 

The general marvel, or that single look : 

But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, — the surprise 

That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 

Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 

Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed! 

And drawing nigh, exclaim'd with haughty sneer, 

«'T is he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here ?» 

XXIII. 

It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such question, so repeated fierce and high ; 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
« My name is Lara! — when thine own is known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The un!ook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 
'T is Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask, 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask.» 

«Thou shun'st no question! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget. » 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 



They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 

He deign' d no answer, but his head he shook, 

And half-contemptuous turn'd to pass away; 

But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 

« A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 

To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 

Rut as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 

If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 

But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 

Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he? whose deeds » 

« Whate'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest.w 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
« Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast ought to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown; 
Aud if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will uot that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny.» 

« To-morrow be it,» Ezzelin replied, 

« And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 

I gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words; so may I mingle with the blest !» 

What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 

His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk; 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 

But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 

In far forgetfulness away — away — 

Alas! that heedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

« To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow !» further word 

Than those repeated none from Lara heard; 

Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke; 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 

Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And, passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd; 

And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 

With which that chieftain's brow woidd bear him down : 

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride, 

That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide; 

But that of one in his own heart secure 

Of all that he would do, or could endure. 

Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? 

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 

For man to trust to mortal look or speech; 



l82 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



From deeds, and deeds alone, may lie discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign ohey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home : 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recal, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 

But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through; 

Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 

All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; 

But't was a hectic tint of secret care 

That for a burning moment fever' d there; 

And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 

From high, andlighten'd with electric thought, 

Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe, 

Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge; 

Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 

Or if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 

And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 

The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page : 

For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 

As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 

And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 

Brief were his answers, and his questions none; 

His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book; 

His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 

He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 

From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart; 

To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 

No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 't was Lara; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone; 

In mute attention; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if t was Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord. 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 



But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Gould bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 

But, from his aspect, might be more than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then; 

Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 

And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold ; 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame; 

And o'er his brow the damp'ning heart-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be things that we must dream and dare, 

And execute ere thought be half aware : 

Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 

When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if on something recognised right well ; 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 

All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 

That when his long dark shadow through the porch 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound, as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 

And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 

With thoughtful visage and imperious air : 

But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 

He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest. 



LARA. 



Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy suhsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope and cunning's guile. 
Hate's working brain, aud lull'd ambition's wile; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline; 
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 
That sleep the loveliest, bince it dreams the least. 



CANTO II. 



Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd 

Melt into morn, and light awakes the world. 

Man has another day to swell the past, 

And lead him near to little, but his last; 

But mighty nature bounds as from her birth, 

The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; 

Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 

Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 

Immortal man! behold her glories shine, 

And cry, exulting inly, « they are thine !» 

Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see, 

A morrow comes when they are not for thee: 

And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 

Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 

Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall. 

Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 

But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 

And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 

II. 
'T is morn — 't is noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather' d chieftains come to Otho's call; 
'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, 
Me thinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

HI. 
The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air; 
Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow s o'ercast. 
« I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here: 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade him stay. 
And urged him to prepare against to-day; 



The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 

Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain. » 

He ceased — and Lara answer'd, >c I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear ; 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

Y\ hose words already might my heart have wrung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not— but me it seems he knew 

In lands where— but I must not trifle too : 

Produce this babbler— or redeem the pledge; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge.» 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 

His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 

« The last alternative befits me best, 

And thus I answer for mine absent guest. » 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke; 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lip those words of insult fell— 

« His sword is good who can maintain them well.» 

IV. 

Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash, 

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 

He bled, and fell, but not with deadly wound, 

Stretch'd by a dexterous sleight along the ground. 

« Demand thy life! » He answer'd not; and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was IeveH'd at his brow; 

Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld. 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 

"W ho thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent : 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away; 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 

VI. 

But where was he, that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light? 
Where was this Ezzelin, who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent ? 



8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest. 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was; 
Nor dabbling fingers left, to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonized hands that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward, 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft: 
But these were not; and doubting hope is left; 
And strange suspicion whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd, 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

vir. 

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride; and hate no more conceal'd: 

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 

The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 

And from his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

His presence? who had made him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 

The general rumour ignorantly loud, 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd; 

The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade : 

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 

For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage; 

But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 

With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 

Such as long power and overgorged success 

Concentrates into all that 's merciless: 

These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 

Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 

'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 

Such as himself might fear, and foes would form 

And he must answer for the absent head 

Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 

Within that land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; 
That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 



New havock, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends; 

Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his land*, 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands: 

But that long absence from his native clime, 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now diverted by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away; 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 

And each long restless night, and silent mood, 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 

From thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew\ 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to tbe high, 

The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watched might mark that, day by day, 

Some new retainers gather'd to his sway; 

But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 

He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host. 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head : 

Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 

With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 

If this were policy, so far 't was sound, 

The million judged but of him as they found; 

From him, by sterner chiefs to exile driven, 

They but requir'd a shelter, and 't was given. 

By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 

And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot; 

With him old Avarice found its hoard secure, 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor; 

Youth present cheer and promis'd recompense 

Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence: 

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 

The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

That slavery nothing which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought: 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Cegirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 

Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves, 

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! 

Such is their cry — some watch-word for the fight 

Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right: 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — -what you will, 

A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill: 

Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 

IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd; 



LARA. 



I tit) 



Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth , 
The serfs contemn d the one, and hated both : 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound; 
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and^ slept. 
Boused by events that seern'd foredoom'd to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been. 
And is again; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there ; 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay, 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene; 
But, dragg'd again upon the arena, stood, 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke. 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish and the faint that yield? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle plain: 

In either cause, one rage alone possest 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XL 

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung. 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, 

They form no longer to their leader's call; 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate ; 



In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew; 

In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, — 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame; 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 

The long privation of the hoped supply, 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art. 

And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 

Of these they had not deem'd; the battle-dav 

They could encounter as a veteran may, 

But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 

And present death, to hourly suffering life : 

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps awav 

His numbers, melting fast from their array; 

Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 

And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent. 

But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 

And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: 

Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 

To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 

One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 

And thence they may escape from native war ; 

And bear within them to the neighbouring state 

An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 

Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 

But harder still to perish or submit. 

XII. 

It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight; 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier-stream; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank? 
Away! 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
Beturn or fly! — What glitters in the rear? 
'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight ; 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIII. 
A moment's pause, 't is but to breathe their band. 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose. 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
« The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt.» 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death '. 

XIV. 

His blade is bared : in him there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 
A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men : 
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 

24 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight threw 

Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 

The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 

It trembled not in such an hour as this; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 

His eve alone proclaim'd, « We will not part! 

Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee : 

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!» 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven; 

"Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 

And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel : 

Outnumbered, not outbraved, they still oppose 

Despair to daring, and a front to foes; 

And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 

Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 

Where foe appear' d to press, or friend to fall, 

Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 

Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. 

None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 

But those that waver turn to smite again, 

While yet they find the firmest of the foe 

Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 

Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 

He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 

Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 

Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 

And shook — why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 

The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 

That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 

And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 

The word of triumph fainted from his tongue; 

That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung! 

But yet the sword instinctively retains, 

Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins : 

These Kaled snatches; dizzy with the blow, 

And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 

Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 

Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 

Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 

Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain! 

XVI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
| Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake— 



It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not, 
It was an agony — but now forgot! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

T was Lara, bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide, 

Kneels Kaled, watchful o'er his welling side, 

And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush, 

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush; 

And then, as his faint breathing w r axes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVffl. 

The foe arrives, who long had search' d the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see t w/ere vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and, leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reached alone; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round: 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words, though faint, were many — from the tone 

Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 

From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 

More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 

So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 

The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 

But Lara's voice, though low, at first, was clear 

And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near: 

Rut from his visage little could we guess, 

So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 

Save that, w hen struggling nearer to his last, 

Upon that page his eye w as kindly cast ; 

And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast, 

Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East: 

Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 

R.oll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 

Or that 't was chance, or some remember'd scene 

That raised his arm to point where such had been, 



LARA. 



87 



Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away 

As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day, 

And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 

Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 

For when one near display 'd the absolving cross, 

And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 

Of which his parting soul might own the need, 

He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 

And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 't were with disdain : 

And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 

From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 

With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 

Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 

As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 

Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 

That life of immortality, secure 

To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 

The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 

He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 

It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 

With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain 

For that faint throb which answers not again. 

« It beats !» — Away, thou dreamer! — he is gone — 

It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more, 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain. 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain, 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell. 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe' 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half conceal'd . 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd . 

And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ! 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 

But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 

Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 

Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound . 

And he was mourn'd by oue whose quiet grief. 

Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 

Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 

And vain even menace — silent to the last, 

She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 

Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 

Why did she love him? Curious fool! — be still — 

Is human love the growth of human will ? 



To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kalcd's heart and brain ; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life. 
It seems they vanish 'd in a land of strife; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale), 
A serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veiJ'd in mist her waniug horn; 
A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood— before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And, lifting thence the burthen which he bore. 
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd: 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
! He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
I And something glitter' d starlike on the vest, 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 
I It rose again but indistinct to view, 
And left the w r aters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread , 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wort . 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 



88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 

And Kalcd — Lara — Ezzciin, are gone, 

Alike without their monumental stone ! 

The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 

From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been 

Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 

Her tears were few, her wailing never loud, 

But furious, would you tear her from the spot 

Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 

Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 

That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire: 

But, left to waste her weary moments there, 

She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 

Such as the busy brain of sorrow paints, 

And woos to listeu to her fond complaints: 

And she would sit beneath the very tree 

Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; 

And in that posture where she saw him fall, 

His words, his looks, his dying grasp recal; 

And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 

And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 

And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 

As if she staunch'd anew some phantom's wound. 

Herself would question, and for him reply; 

Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 

From some imagined spectre in pursuit; 

Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 

And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 

Or trace strange characters along the sand. 

This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 

Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 



NOTE. 



The event in section 24, Canto II, was suggested by 
the description of the death or rather burial of the 
Duke of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of this 
mysterious event is given by Burchard; and is in sub- 
stance as follows: « On the eighth day of June, the 
cardinal of Valenza, and the Duke of Gandia, sons of 
the Pope, supped with their mother, Vanozza, near the 

, church of S. Pietro ad vincula; several other persons 
being present at the entertainment. A late hour ap- 
proaching, and the cardinal having reminded his brother, 
that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
mounted their horses or mules, with only a few at- 
tendants, and proceeded together as far as the palace 
of cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed 
the cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to 
pay a visit of pleasure. Dismissing, therefore, all his 
attendants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a 
person in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at 
supper, and who, during the space of a month, or there- 
abouts, previous to this time, had called upon him 
almost daily, at the apostolic palace ; he took this per- 
son behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the 
street of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, direct- 

| ing him to remain there until a certain hour; when, 



if he did not return, he might repair to the palace. 
The duke then seated the person in the mask behind 
him, and rode, I know not whither; but in that night 
he was assassinated, and thrown into the river. The 
servant, after having been dismissed, was also assaulted 
and mortally wounded; and although he was attended 
with great care, yet such was his situation, that he 
could give no intelligible account of what had befallen 
his master. In the morning, the duke not having re- 
turned to the palace, his servants began to be alarmed; 
and one of them informed the pontiff of the evening 
excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not yet 
made his appearance. This gave the Pope no small 
anxiety; hut he conjectured that the duke had been 
attracted by some courtesan to pass the Dight with 
her, and, not chusing to quit the house in open day, 
had waited till the following evening to return home. 
When, however, the evening arrived, and he found 
himself disappointed in his expectations, he became 
deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from 
different persons, whom he ordered to attend him for 
that purpose. Amongst these was a man named Gior- 
gio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber 
from a bark in the river, had remained on board the 
vessel, to watch it; and being interrogated whether he 
had seen any one thrown into the river, on the night 
preceding, lie replied, that he saw two men on foot, 
who came down the street, and looked diligently about, 
to observe whether any person was passing. That see- 
ing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards 
two others came, and looked around in the same 
manner as the former; no person still appearing, they 
gave a sign to their companions, when a man came, 
mounted on a white horse, having behind him a dead 
body, the head and arms of which hung on one side, 
and the feet on the other side of the horse, the two 
persons on foot supporting the body, to prevent its 
falling. They thus proceeded towards that part, where 
the filth of the city is usually discharged into the river, 
and, turning the horse with his tail towards the water, 
the two persons took the dead body by the arms and 
feet, and with all their strength flung it into the river. 
The person on horseback then asked if they had thrown 
it in, to which they replied, Signor, si (yes, Sir). He 
then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle 
floating on the stream, he inquired what it was that 
appeared black ; to which they answered, it was a 
mantle; and one of them threw stones upon it, in con- 
sequence of which it sunk. The attendants of the 
pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he had not 
revealed this to the governor of the city; to which he 
replied, that he had seen in his time a hundred dead 
bodies thrown into the river at the same place, without 
any inquiry being made respecting them; and that he 
had not, therefore, considered it as a matter of any 
importance. The fishermen and seamen were then 
collected, and ordered to search the river , where, on 
the following evening, they found the body of the 
duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his 
purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of 
which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, 
and limbs, No sooner was the pontiff informed of 
the death of his son, and that, he had been thrown, 
like filth, into the river, than, giving way to his grief, 
he shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
The cardinal of Segovia, and other attendants on the 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



% 



Pope, went to the door, and after many hours spent in 
persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to 
admit them. From the evening of Wednesday, till the 
following Saturday, the Pope took no food ; nor did he 
sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on the 



ensuing day. At length, however, giving -way to the 
entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrain his 
sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own 
health might sustain, by the further indulgence of his 
grief.» — Roscoe's Leo Tenth, vol. I, page 265. 



A POEM. 



Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 

Iminolat, et poenani scelerato ex sanguine sumit. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throw's, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old iEgina'o rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! ' 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill— 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
The land where Phcebus never frown'd before, 
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died as none can live or die ! 

But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 2 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, 3 
And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 



Again the JEgean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 

As thus within the walls of Pallas' fane 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone and friendless, on the magic shore 
Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore, 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
And glory knew no clime beyond her Greece. 
Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky, 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god ; 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine, when Hecate's glare, 
Check' d by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and measured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode. 
Yes, 't was Minerva's self, but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan held in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand; 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle yEgis bore no gorgon now; 
Her helm was deep indented, and her lance 
Seem'd weak and shaft! ess, e'en to mortal glance; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch and wilher'd in her grasp : 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye; 
Bound the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And rnourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe. 
« Mortal! ('t was thus she spake) that blush of shame 
Proclaims thee Briton — once a noble name — 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honour'd less by all — and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found:— 
Seek'st thou the cause ? O mortal, look around ! 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyraunies expire ; 



9° 



LYRON'S WORKS. 



Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 

Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both! 

Survey this vacant violated fane: 

Recount the relics torn that yet remain ; 

These Cecrops placed — tins Pericles adorn'd 4 — 

That Hadrian rear'd when drooping science mourn'd: 

What more I owe let gratitude attest — 

Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 

That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 

The insulted wall sustains his hated name. 5 

For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads: 

Below, his name — above, behold his deeds! 

Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 

The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer. 

Arms gave the first his right — the last had none, 

But basely stole wh?t less barbarians won ! 

So when the lion quits his fell repast, 

Next prowls the wolf— the filthy jackal last : 

Flesh, limbs, and blood, the former make their own; 

The last base brute securely gnaws the bone. 

Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are crost — 

See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 

Another name with his pollutes my shrine, 

Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 

Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 

When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. » 6 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye: — 
« Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim ! 
Frown not on England — England owns him not — 
Athena, no ! the plunderer was a Scot ! 7 
Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyle's towers 
Survey Pceotia — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land 8 
Hath wisdom's goddess never held command: 
A barren soil, where nature's germs, confined, 
To stern sterility can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth. 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist, 
A land of meauness, sophistry, and mist: 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzling brain, 
Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows; 
Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Dispatch her scheming children far and wide; 
Some east, some west, some every where but north ! 
In quest of lawless gain they issue forth ; 
And thus, accursed be the day and year, 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet, Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth — 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
And shine like children of a happier strand: 
As once of yore, in some obnoxious place, 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race!" 

« Mortal," the blue-eyed maid resumed, « once more. 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore; 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance still is mine. 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 



Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 

Hear and believe, for time shall tell the rest. 

First on the head of him who did the deed 

My curse shall light,— on him and all his seed : 

Without one spark of intellectual fire, 

Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 

If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 

Believe him bastard of a brighter race; 

Still with his hireling artists let him prate, 

And folly's praise repay for wisdom's hate ! 

Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 

Whose noblest native gusto — is to sell : 

To sell, and make (may shame record the day!) 

The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey! 

Meantime, the flattering feeble dotard, West, 

Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 

With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 

And own himself an infant of fourscore: 9 

Be all the bruisers call'd from all St Giles, 

That art and nature may compare their styles ; 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 

And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. <° 

Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep, 

To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep; 

While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 

On giant statues casts the curious eye, 

The room with transient glance appears to skim, 

Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb; 

Mourns o'er the difference of now and then; 

Exclaims, ' these Greeks indeed were proper men ;' 

Draws slight comparisons of these with those, 

And envies Lais all her Attic beaux: 

When shall a modern maid have swains like these? 

Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 

And, last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 

Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, " 

In silent indignation, mix'd with grief, 

Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 

Loathed throughout life — scarce pardon'd in the dust, 

May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 

Link'd with the fool who fired the Ephesian dome, 

Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb ; 

Erostratus and Elgin e'er shall shine 

In many a branding page and burning line ! 

Alike condemn'd for aye to stand accursed — 

Perchance the second viler than the first : 

So let him stand through ages yet unborn, 

Fix'd statue on the pedestal of scorn ! 

Though not for him alone revenge shall wait. 

But fits thy country for her coming fate: 

Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 

To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 

Look to the Baltic blazing from afar — 

Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war : 

Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 

Or break the compact which herself had made; 

Far from such councils, from the faithless field. 

She fled — but left behind her gorgon shield ; 

A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 

And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 

Shall shake your usurpation to its base ; 

Lo ! there B_ebellion rears her ghastly head, 

And glares the Nemesis of native dead, 

Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, 

And claims his lomjarrear of northern blood. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



9 



So may ye perish ! Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 
Look on your Spain : she clasps the hand she hates, 
But coldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Darrossa, thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell ; 
While Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
Can spare a few to fight and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field! by famine fiercely won; 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat? 
Look last at home— ye love not to look there, 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair; 
Your city saddens, loud though revel howls; 
Here famine faints, and yonder rapine prowls : 
See all alike of more or less bereft- 
No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit' 12 who shall dare to sing? 
It clogs like lead corruption's weary wing : 
Yet Pallas plucked each Premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas! too late! 
Then raves for *** ; ,3 to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends: 
Him senates hear whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So once of yore each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign log; 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

« Now fare ye well, enjoy your little hour; 

Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish' d power; 

Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme, 

Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 

Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 

And pirates barter all that's left behind; '4 

No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 

Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war; 

The idle merchant on the useless quay 

Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away, 

Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 

Rot piecemeal on his own eucumber'd shores; 

The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 

And, desperate, mans him 'gainst the common doom. 

Then in the senate of your sinking state, 

Show me the man whosei counsels may have weight. 

Vain is each voice whose tones could once command; 

Even factions cease to charm a factious land; 

While jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 

And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

« 'T is done, 't is past ! since Pallas warns in vain, 

The Furies seize her abdicated reign; 

Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands, 

And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 

But one convulsive struggle still remains, 

And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 

The banner'dpomp of war, the glittering files, 

O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; 

The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 

That bid the foe defiance ere they come; 

The hero bounding at his country's call, 

The glorious death that decorates his fall, 



Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 

And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 

But know, a lesson you may yet be taught — 

With death alone are laurels cheaply bought: 

Not in the conflict havoc seeks delight, 

His day of mercy is the day of fight; 

But when the field is fought, the battle won, 

Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun: 

His deeper deeds ye yet know but by name — 

The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 

The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 

111 suit with souls at home untaught to yield. 

Say with what eye, along the distant down, 

Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 

How view the column of ascending flames 

Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? 

Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 

That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: 

Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 

Go, ask thy bosom, who deserves them most? 

The law of heaven and earth is life for life ; 

And she who raised in vain regrets the strife. » 



NOTES. 



Note 



je 189, line 22. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ! 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- 
treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

Note 2. Page 189, line 34. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer 
of less duration. 

Note 3. Page 189, line 44- 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk. 
The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the 
wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
Ilissus has no stream at all. 

Note 4- Page 190, line 5. 
These Cecrops placed — this Pericles adorn'd. 
This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the 
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olym- 
pius, by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by 
Hadrian: sixteen columns are standing, of the most 
beautiful marble and style of architecture. 

Note 5. Page 190, line 10. 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name. 
It is stated by a late oriental traveller, that when the 
wholesale spoliator visited Athens, he caused his own 
name, with that of his wife, to be inscribed on a pillar 
of one of the principal temples. This inscription was 
executed in a very conspicuous manner, and deeply en- 
graved in the marble, at a very considerable elevation. 
Notwithstanding which precautions, some person(doubt- 
less inspired by the Patron Goddess), has been at the 
pains to get himself raised up to the requisite height, 
and has obliterated the name of the laird, but left that 
of the lady untouched. The traveller in question ac- 



'9 : 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



companied this story, by a remark, that it must have 
cost some labour and contrivance to get at the place, 
and could only have been effected by much zeal and 
determination. 

Note 6. Page 190, line 26. 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. 
His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer 
bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon 
above; in a part not far distant are the the torn remnants 
of the basso-relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to 
remove them. 

Note 7. Page 190, line 32. 

Frown not on England— England owns him not— 
Athena, no ! the plunderer was a Scot ! 
The plaster -wall on the west side of the temple of 
Minerva Polias bears the following inscription, cut in 
very deep characters: 

Quod non fecerunt Goti 
Hoc fecerunt Scoti. 
Hothouse's Travels in Greece, etc., p. 345. 
Note 8. Page 190, line 35. 
And well I know within that bastard land. 
Irish bastards, according to Sir Callaghan O'Bral- 
laghan. 

Note 9. Page 190, line 82. 

With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 

And own himself an infant of fourscore. . 

Mr West, on seeing « the Elgin collection » (I suppose 

we shall hear of the Abershaw's and Jack Shephard's 

collection next), declared himself a mere Tyro in Art. 

Note 10. Page 190, line 8ti. 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 

And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. 

Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when exhibited at Elgin- 
house ; he asked if it was not « a stone-shop : » he -was 
right, — it is a shop. 

Note 11. Page 190, line 100. 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. 
« Alas! all the monuments of Roman magnificence, 
all the remains of Grecian taste, so dear to the artist, 
the historian, the antiquary, all depend on the will of 
an arbitrary sovereign; and that will is influenced too 
often by interest or vanity, by a nephew or a sycophant. 



Is a new palace to be erected (at Rome! for an upstart 
family? the Coliseum is stripped to furnish materials. 
Does a foreign minister wish to adorn the bleak walls 
of a northern castle with antiques? the temples of The- 
seus or Minerva must be dismantled, and the works of 
Phidias or Praxiteles be torn from the shattered frieze. 
That a decrepid uncle, wrapped up in the religious 
duties of his age and station, should listen to the sug- 
gestions of an interested nephew, is natural; and that 
an oriental despot should undervalue the masterpieces 
of Grecian art, is to be expected; though in both cases 
the consequences of such weakness are much to be la- 
mented — but that the minister of a nation, famed for 
its knowledge of the language, and its veneration for 
the monuments of ancient Greece, should have been 
the prompter and the instrument of these. destructions 
is almost incredible. Such rapacity is a crime against 
all ages and all generations: it deprives the past of the 
trophies of their genius and the title-deeds of their 
fame; the present, of the strongest inducements to 
exertion, the noblest exhibitions that curiosity can 
contemplate; the future, of the masterpieces of art, the 
models of imitation. To guard against the repetition 
of such depredations is the wish of every man of ge- 
nius, the duty of every man in power, and the com- 
mon interest of every civilized nation. » — Eustaces 
Classical Tour through Italy, p. 269. 

« This attempt to transplant the temple of Vesta from 
Italy to England, may, perhaps, do honour to the late 
Lord Bristol's patriotism or to his magnificence; but it 
cannot be considered as an indication of either taste or 
judgment." — Ibid. p. 419. 

Note 12. Page 191, line 19, 
' Blest paper credit ' who shall dare to sing ? 
Blest paper credit, last and best supply, 
That lends corruption lighter wings to fiy. — Pope. 

Note i3. Page igi, line 2.5. 
There raves for * * *. 
The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 
Note 14. Page 191, line 38. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
And pirates barter all that 's left behind. 
See the preceding note. 



®%t £i$%t of Qovintt). 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 
&!)te #ocw is ittscriuetr, 

BY HIS FRIEND. 



January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



« The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli 
di Romania, the most considerable place in all that 
country. 1 thought it best in the first place to attack 

1 Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable place in the 
Morea, but Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and maintains his 



Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The 
garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it 

raent. Napoli is near Argos. I visited all three in 1810-1 1 ; 
and in the course of journeying through the country from my first 
arrival in 1809, I crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way from 
Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other direction, 
when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that of Lepanto. Both 
the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though very different : 
that by sea has more sameness, but the voyage, being always within 
sight of land, and often very near it, presents many attractive views 
of the islands Salamis, Egina, Poro, etc., and the coast of the con- 
tinent. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


k 9 3 


was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, 


Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 




thought it fit to heat a parley : but while they were 


Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 




treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the 


And from that wall the foe replies, 




Turkish camp, -wherein they had six hundred barrels of 


O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 




powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hun- 


With fires that answer fast and well 




dred men were killed: which so enraged the infidels, 


The summons of the Infidel. 




that they would not grant any capitulation, hut storm- 






ed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and 


III. 




put most of the garrison, with Signor Minotti, the go- 


But near and nearest to the wall 




vernor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, 


Of those who wish and work its fall, 




proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war.» 


With deeper skill in war's black art 




— History of the Turks, vol. iii, p. i5i. 


Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 






THE 


From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 




SIEGE OF CORINTH. 


Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Bemains as yet impregnable, 




i. 


Alighting cheerly to inspire 




Many a vanish'd year and age, 


The soldier slackening in his fire ; 


I 


And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 


The first and freshest of the host 


1 


Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 


Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 




A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 


To guide the follower o'er the field, 




The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's slsock, 


To point the tube, the lance to wield, 




Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 


Or whirl around the bickering blade, — 




The keystone of a land which still, 


Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 




Though fall'ii, looks proudly on that hill, 




| 


The land-mark to the double tide 


IV. 




That purpling rolls on cither side, 


From Venice — once a race of worth 




As if their waters chafed to meet, 


His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 




Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 


Tut late an exile from her shore, 




Cut could the blood before her shed 


Against his countrymen he bore 




Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 


The arms they taught to bear; and now 




Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 


The turban girt his shaven brow. 




Arise, from out the earth which drank 


Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 




The stream of slaughter as it sank, 


With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 




That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 


And here, before her walls, with those 




Her isthmus idly spread below: 


To Greece and Venice equal foes, 




Or could the bones of all the slain, 


He stood a foe, with all the zeal 




Who perish'd there be piled again, 


Which young and fiery converts feel, 




That rival pyramid would rise 


Within whose heated bosom throngs 




More mountain-like, through those clear skie-., 


The memory of a thousand wrongs. 




Than yon tower-capt Acropolis, 


To him had Venice ceased to be 




Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 


Her ancient civic boast — « the Free;» 
And in the palace of St Mark 




H. 


Unnamed accusers in the dark 




On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 


Within the « Lion's mouth » had placed 




The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; 


A charge against him uneffaced : 




And downward to the Isthmian plain 


He fled in time, and saved his life, 




From shore to shore of either main, 


To waste his future years in strife, 




The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 


That taught his land how great her loss 




Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; 


In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 




And the dusk Spain's bands advance 


'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 




Beneath each bearded pacha's glance; 


And battled to avenge or die. 




And far and wide as eye can reach, 




The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; 


V. 




And there the Arab's camel kneels, 


Coumourgi 2 — he whose closing scene 




And there his steed the Tartar wheels; 


Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 




The Turcoman hath left his herd, 1 


When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 




The sabre round his loins to gird; 


The last and mightiest of the slain, 




And there the volleying thunders pour, 


He sank, regretting not to die, 




Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 


But curst the Christian's victory— 




The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 


Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 




Wings the far-hissing globe of death; 


That latest conqueror of Greece, 

25 





194 BYRON'S WORKS. 


Till Christian hands to Greece restore 


Her voice less lively in the song ; 


The freedom Venice gave of yore? 


Her step, though light, less fleet among 


A hundred years have roll'd away 


The pairs, on whom the morniog's glance 


Since he refixed the Moslem's sway; 


Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 


And now he led the Mussulman, 




And gave the guidance of the van 


IX. 


To Alp, who well repaid the trust 


Sent by the state to guard the land 


J!y cities levell'd with the dust ; 


(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 


And proved, by many a deed of death, 


While Sobieski tamed his pride 


How firm his heart in novel faith. 


By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 




The chiefs of Venice wrung away 


VI. 


From Patra to Eubcea's bay), 


The walls grew weak; and fast and hot 
Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 


Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 


With unabating fury sent 


While yet the pitying eye of peace 


From battery to battlement; 
And thunder-like the pealing din 
Rose from each heated culverin; 


Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece: 
And, ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 


And here and there some crackling dome 
Was fired before the exploding bomb: 
And as the fabric sank beneath 
The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
In red and wreathing columns flash'd 
The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 


With him his gentle daughter came: 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 


Or into countless meteors driven, 




Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 


X. 


Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 


The wall is rent, the ruins yawn, 


Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumed smoke, that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 


And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 


VII. 

But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win, without consent 


Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 


The full of hope, misnamed « forlorn, « 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
And win their way with falchions' force, 
Or pave the path with many a corse, 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their steppiug-stone — the last who dies! 


Of that inexorable sire, 


XI. 

'T is midnight: on the mountains brown 
The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright, 
Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
And turn'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray? 


Whose heart refused him in its ire, 

When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 

Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 

In happier mood and earlier time, 

While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 

Gayest in gondola or hall, 

He glitter'd through the Carnival, 

And tuned the softest serenade 

That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 

At midnight to Italian maid. 




The waves on either shore lay there 


VIII. 


Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 


And many deem'd her heart was won ; 


And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 


For, sought by numbers, given to none, 


But murmur'd meekly as the brock. 


Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 


The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 


Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 


The banners droop'd along their staves, 


And when the Adriatic bore 


And, as they fell around them furling, 


Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 


Above them shone the crescent curling; 


Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 


And that deep silence was unbroke, 


And pensive wax'd the maid and pale; 


Save where the watch his signal spoke, 


More constant a: confessional, 


Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 


More rare at masque and festival; 


And echo answer'd from the hill, 


Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 


And the wide hum of that wild host 


Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize : 


Piustled like leaves from coast to coast, 


With listless look she seems to gaze; 


As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 


With humbler care her form arrays ; 


In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



*9 ; 



It rose, that chauntcd mournful strain, 

Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 

'T was musical, hut sadly sweet, 

Such as when winds and harp -strings meet, 

And take a long unmeasured tone., 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

It seem'd to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall : 

It struck even the besieger's ear 

With something ominous and drear, 

An undefined and sudden thrill, 

Which makes the heart a moment still. 

Then heat with quicker pulse, ashamed 

Of that strauge sense its silence framed; 

Such as a sudden passing-bell 

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

x;i. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 

The watch was set, the night-round made, 

All mandates issued and obey'd ; 

'T is but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With ah revenge and love can pay 

In guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 

He stood alone among the host; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the Crescent o'er the Cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By houris loved immortally: 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 

The stern exaltediicss of zeal, 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betray'd; 

He stood alone amidst his baud, 

Without a trusted heart or hand : 

They follovv'd him, for he was brave, 

And great the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will; 

But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name; 

Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 

In youth a bitter Xazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop 

When bafded feelings withering droop ; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackal sway; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey, 

Then on the vulgar yelling press 

To gorge the relics of success. 



■XIII. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose ; 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
Wkere thousand sleepers strew 'd the strand. 
What pillow'd them? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be? 
Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm: 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone. 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime : 
It will not melt, like man, to time. 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And liuger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh, still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields and ruined altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token. 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember" d rays 
Which shone upon the Persian Hying. 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes : 



96 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And through this night, as on he wander'd, 

And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 

And thought upon the glorious dead 

Who there in better cause had bled, 

He felt how faint and feebly dim 

The fame that could accrue to him, 

Who cheer'd the band and waved the sword, 

A traitor in a turban'd horde; 

And led them to the lawless siege, 

Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy number'd, 

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying ; 

The very gale their names seem'd sighing; 

The waters murmur'd of their name; 

The woods were peopled with their fame; 

The silent pillar, lone and grey, 

Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; 

Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain ; 

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 

The meanest rill, the mightiest river 

Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 

Despite of every yoke she bears, 

That land is glory's still, and theirs ! 

T is still a watch-word to the earth. 

When man would do a deed of worth 

He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 

So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head : 

He looks to her, and rushes on 

Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

xvr. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo'd the freshness night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, 3 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood; 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go: 

Calm or high, in main or bay, 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 

On the line that it left long ages ago : 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 

I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 

There flash' d no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 

Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown 

That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town, 

Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 

The sullen words of the sentinel, 

As his measured step on the stone below, 

Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro : 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 

Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 



Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb ; 

They were too busy to bark at him ! 

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,** 

As it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull, 

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 

When they scarce could rise from the spot where thev fed ; 

So well had they broken a lingering fast 

With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 

The foremost of these were the best of his band : 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, 5 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

Cut close by the shore on the edge of the gulf, 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVII. 

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight: 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight; 

Cut he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep iu the tide of their warm blood lying, 

Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 

Than tlie perishing dead who are past all pain. 

There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be the shape in which death may lour; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVUI. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! 

Out upon time! it-will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be : 

What we have seen, our sons shall see; 

Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 

Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base, 

And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was dropping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest ; 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went, 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key, 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



97 



Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you -would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily, 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, 6 

Sent that soft and tender moan? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may he ; 

lie look'd on the long grass — it waved not a hlade ; 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his clieek. 

What did that sudden sound bespeak? 

He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight? 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

« God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ?» 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscieuce wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw: he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride ! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak: 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wave it stood still, 

And its glauce, though clear, was chill. 

Around her form a thin robe twining, 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare: 

And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI. 

« I come from my rest, to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'T is said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leagnering infidel. 

I come — and if T come in vain, 

Never, oh never, we meet again! 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

lu falling away from thy fathers' creed: 



But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part.» 

« And where should our bridal couch be spread? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name : 

None save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn: 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. 

There thou yet shalt be my bride, 

When once again I 've quell'd the pride 

Of Venice ; and her hated race 

Have felt the arm they would debase 

Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 

Whom vice and envy made my foes.» 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 

And there scem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down 

From the shadowy wall where their images frown; 

Fearfully flitting to and fro, 

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

« If not for love of me he given 

Thus much, then, for the love of Heaven, — 

Again I say, — that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country's sous to spare, 

Or thou art lost; and never shalt see, 

Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 't is thine to meet, 

That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 

And Mercy's gate may receive thee within : 

But pause one moment more, and take 

The curse of him thou didst forsake; 



198 BYRON'S WORKS. 

1 


And look once more to heaven, and see 


White is the foam of their champ on the bit: 


Its love for ever shut from thee. 


The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; 


There is a light cloud by the moon— 7 


The cannon are pointed and ready to roar, 


'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 


And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 


If, by the time its vapoury sail 


Forms in his phalanx each janizar; 


Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 


Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, 


Thy heart -within thee is not changed, 


So is the blade of his scimitar; 


Then God and man are both avenged ; 


The khan and the pachas are ail at their post; 


Dark will thy doom be, darker still 


The vizier himself at the head of the host. 


Thine immortality of ill. » 


When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 




Leave not in Corinth a living one — 


Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 


A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 


The sign she spake of in the sky ; 


A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 


But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 


God and the prophet — Alia Hu! 


By dee pinterminable pride ; 


Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 


This first false passion of his breast 


« There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 


Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 


And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail? 


He sue for mercy ! He dismay d 


He who first downs with the red cross, may crave 


By wild words of a timid maid ! 


His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!» 


He, wrong' d by Venice, vow to save 


Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 


Her sons, devoted to the grave! 


The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 


No — though that cloud were thunder's worst. 


And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 


And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 


Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 


He look'd upon it earnestly, 


XXIII. 


Without an accent of reply; 


As the wolves, that headlong go 


He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 


On the stately buffalo, 


Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 


Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 


And thus he spake — « Whate'er my fate, 


And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 


I am no changeling — 't is too late : 


He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 


The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 


The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die 


Then rise again, the tree must shiver. 


Thus against the wall they went, 


What Venice made me, I must be, 


Thus the first were backward bent; 


Her foe in all, save love to thee : 


Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 


But thou art safe : oh, fly with me ! — » 


Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 


He turn'd, but she is gone ! 


Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 


Nothing is there but the column stone. 


The ground whereon they moved no more : 


Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 


Even as they fell, in tiles they lay, 


He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there. 


Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 




When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 


XXII. 


Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 


The night is past, and shines the sun 




As if that morn were a jocund one. 


4 XXIV. 


Lightly and brightly breaks away 


As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 


The morning from her mantle grey, 


From the cliffs invading dash 


And the noon will look on a sultry day. 


Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 


Hark to the trump, and the drum, 


Till white and thundering down they go, 


And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 


Like the avalanche's snow 


And the flap of the banners, that flit as they 're borne, 


On the Alpine vales below ; 


And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 


Thus at length outbreathed and worn, 


And the clash, and the shout, « They come, they come !» 


Corinth's sons were downward borne 


The horsetails s are pluck'd from the ground, and the 


By the long and oft-renew'd 


sword 


Charge of the Moslem multitude. 


From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the 


In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 


word. 


Heap'd by the host of the infidel, 


Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 


Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 


Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 


Nothing there, save death, was mute; 


Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 


Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 


That the fugitive may flee in vain, 


For quarter, or for victory, 


When he breaks from the town, and none escape. 


Mingle there with the volleying thunder. 


Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; ^ 


Which makes the distant cities wonder 


While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 


How the sounding battle goes, 


Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 


If with them, or for their foes; 


The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein: 


If they must mourn, or may rejoice 


Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 


In that annihilating voice, 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 199 


Which pierces the deep hills through and through 


Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 


With an echo dread and new: 


Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 


You might have heard it, on that day, 


Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; 


O'er Salamis and Mcgara ; 


Thus in the fight he is.ever known: 


(We have heard the hearers say,) 


Others a gaudier garb may show, 


Even unto Piraeus bay. 


To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; 




fllany a hand 's on a richer hilt, 


XXV. 


But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 


From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 


Many a loftier turban may wear, — 


Sabres and swords with blood were gilt. 


Alp is but known by the white arm bare; 


But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 


Look through the thick of the fight, 't is there! 


And all but the after-carnage done. 


There is not a standard on that shore 


Shriller shrieks now mingling come 


So well advanced the ranks before ; 


From within the plunder'd dome : 


There is not a banner in Moslem war 


Hark to the haste of flying feet, 


Will lure the Delhis half so far; 


That splash in the blood of the slippery street; 


It glances like a falling star! 


But here and there, where 'vantage ground 


Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 


Against the foe may still be found, 


The bravest be, or late have been ! 


Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 


There the craven cries for quarter 


Make a pause, and turn again — 


Vainly to the vengeful Tartar, - 


With banded backs against the wall, 


Or the hero, silent lying, 


Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 


Scorns to yield a groan in dying; 




Mustering his last feeble blow 


There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 


'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 


But his veteran arm was full of might : 


Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 


So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 


Grappling on the gory ground. 


The dead before him on that day 




In a semicircle lay ; 


XXVII. 


Still he combated unwounded, 


Still the old man stood erect, 


Though retreating, unsurrounded. 


And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
« Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, 


Many a scar of former fight 


Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright; 


For thine own, thy daughter's sake.» 


But of every wound his body bore, 




Each and all had been ta'en before: 


« Never, renegado, never ! 


Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 


Though the life of thy gift would last for ever.w 


Few of our youth could cope with him; 




And the foes whom he singly kept at bay 


« Francesca! — Oh, my promised bride! 


Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver grey. 


Must she too perish by thy pride ?» 


From right to left his sabre swept ■ 




Many an Othman mother w r ept 


« She is safe.» — « Where? where?» — « In heaven, 


Sons that Mere unborn, when dipp'd 


From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 


His weapon first in Moslem gore, 


Far from thee, and undefiled.)) 


Ere his years could count a score. 


Grimly then Minotti smiled, 


Of all he might have been the sire 


As he saw Alp staggering bow 


Who fell that day beneath his ire: 


Before his words, as with a blow. 


For, sonless left long years ago, 


« Oh God! when died she?» — « Yesternight — 


His wrath made many a childless foe; 


Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 


And since the day, when in the strait 9 


None of my pure race shall be 


His only boy had met his fate, 


Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 


His parent's iron hand did doom 


Come on !» — That challenge is in vain — 


More than a human hecatomb. 


Alp 's already with the slain ! 


If shades by carnage be appeased, 


While Minotti's words were wreaking 


Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 


More revenge in bitter speaking 


Than his, Minotti's son, who died 


Than his falchion's point had found, 


Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 


Had the time allow'd to wound, 


Buried he lay, where thousands before 


From within the neighbouring porch 


For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore: 


Of a long-defended church, 


What of them is left to tell 


Where the last and desperate few 


Where they lie, aud how they fell ? 


Would the failing fight renew, 


Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 


The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground; 


But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 


Ere an eye could view the wound 




That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 


xxvr. 


Round he spun, and down he fell ; 


Hark to the Allah shout! a band 


A flash like fire within his eyes 


Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand: 


Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 



2O0 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And then eternal darkness sunk 
Through all the palpitating trunk: 
Nought of life left, save a quivering 
Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
They turn'd him on his back; his breast 
And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 
And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
But in his pulse there was no throb, 
Nor on his lips one dying sob; 
Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
Heralded his way to death; 
Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unanel'd he pass'd away. 
Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
To the last a renegade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes; 

These in joy, in fury those: 

Then again in conflict mixing, 

Clashing swords and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust, 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, aud foot by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable, 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall, 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track; 

And, with their faces to the foe, 

Dealing wounds with every blow, 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Join to those within the fane: 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 

With added ranks and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their numbers balk their own retreat; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not ; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly: 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still i 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew'd attacks: 

And now the Othmans gain the gate; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower: 



But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
It bends — it falls — and all is o'er; 
Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar stone: 

Madonna's face upon him shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

With eyes of light and looks of love; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine, 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her and the boy-god on her knee, 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled; even now she smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles: 

Minotti lifted his aged eye, 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 

And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible with gore; 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins diffuse, 

Were smear'd aud slippery — stain'd and strovvn 

With broken swords and helms o'erthrown ; 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row, 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate : 

But war had enter' d their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead ; 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late-form'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXH. 

The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain : 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake, 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

And lop the already lifeless head, 

And fell the statues from their niche, 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had blest. 

To the high altar on they go; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show! 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



20 



That morn it held the holy wine, 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 

To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 

Stiil a few drops within it lay; 

And round the sacred table glow 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

xxxin. 

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

'T is fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

Jn one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

Ly that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shriveil'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again, 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatler'd o'er the isthmus lay; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 

And each nursing mother smiled 

On the sweet sleep of her child, 

Little deem'd she such a day 

Would rend those tender limbs away. 

Not the matrons that them bore 

Could discern their offspring more; 

That one moment left no trace 

More of human form or face, 

Save a scatter' d scalp or bone : 

And down came blazing rafters, strown 

Around, and many a falling stone, 

Deeply dinted in the clay, 

All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 

All the living things that heard 

That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 

The wild birds flew, the wild dogs fled, 

And howling left the unburied dead; 

The camels from their keepers broke; 

The distant steer forsook the yoke — 

The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain. 

And burst his girth, and tore his rein, 



The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, lo 
T.ay'd from afar complainingly, 
With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



NOTES. 



Note i. Page igo, line 38. 
The Turcoman hath left his herd. 
The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patri- 
archal : they dwell in tents. 

Note 2. Page ig3, line 96. 
Coumourgi— he whose closing scene. 
Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III, after recovering Pelopon- 
nesus from the Venetians, in one campaign, was mor- 
tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the 
battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), in 
Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died 
of his wounds next day. His last order was the deca- 
pitation of General Ureuner, and some other German 
prisoners ; and his last words, « Oh that I could thus 
serve all the Christian dogs!» a speech and act not 
unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of great 
ambition and unbounded presumption: on being told 
that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, « was a great 
general, » he said «I shall become a greater, and at his 
expense." 

Note 3. Page 196, line 35. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 
The reader need hardly be reminded that there ace 
no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 

Note 4- Page 196, line 69. 
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull. 
This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be- 
neath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the 
little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a 
narrow terrace of which projects between the wall and 
tl water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hob- 
house's Travels. The bodies were probably those of 
some refractory Janizaries. 

Note 5. Page 196, line 78. 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition 
that Mahomet will draw them into paradise by it. 

Note 6. Page 197, line 5. 
I must here acknowledge a close, though uninten- 
tional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage 
in an unpublished poem of Mr Coleridge, called « Chris- 
tabel.w It was not till after these lines were written 

26 



20 9; 



RYRON'S WORKS. 



that I heard that wild and singularly original and beau- 
tiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I 
never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr Cole- 
ridge himself, -who, I hope, is convinced that I have not 
been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly 
pertains to Mr Coleridge, whose poem has been com- 
posed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope 
that he will not longer delay the publication of a pro- 
duction, of which I can only add my mite of approba- 
tion to the applause of far more competent judges. 

Note 7. Page 198, line 3. 
There is a light cloud by the moon. 
I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 
£98 to 6o3 have been admired by those whose appro- 
bation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not ori- 
ginal — at least not mine ; it may be found much better 
expressed in pages 182-3-4 of tne English version of 
« Vathek» (I forget the precise page of the French), a 



work to which I have before referred ; and never recur 
to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. 

Note 8. Page 198, line 48. 
The horse-tails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword. 
The horse-tail, fixed upon a lance, a pacha's standard. 

Note 9. Page 199, line 45. 
And since the day, when in the strait. 
In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
between the Venetians and the Turks. 

Note 10. Page 201, line 68. 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry. 
I believe I have taken a poetical licence to transplant 
the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
these animals ; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have 
heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and fol- 
low armies. 



9sr(0(ti& 



TO SCROPE RERDxMORE DAYIES, ESQ. 

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS, AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 

January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's « Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick.» — I am aware that in modern times the 
delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem 
such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The 
Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old 
English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri 
and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the 
continent. The following extract will' explain the 
facts on which the story is founded. The name of 
Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 

« Under the reign of Nicholas III, Ferrara was pol- 
luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este 
discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and 
Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. 
They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a 
father and husband, who published his shame, and sur- 
vived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they 
were guilty; if they were innocent, he was still more 
unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situation in which 
I can sincerely approve that last act of the justice of a 
parent. » — Gibbons Miscellaneous Works, vol. 3, p. 47°> 
new edition. 



PARISINA. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard 



It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 
And gentle winds, and waters near, 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
And in the sky the stars are met, 
And on the wave is deeper blue, 
And on the leaf a browner hue, 
And in the heaven that clear' obscure, 
So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
Which follows the decline of day, 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. < 

II. 

Hut it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 

She listens — but not for the nightingale — 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick. 

There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 

And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 

A moment more — and they shall meet — 

T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 

III. 

And what uuto them i-s the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 



PARISINA. 



And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for each other breathe : 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that, did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts -which feel its fierv sway : 

i guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's pawer. 
Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour, 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas ! we must awake before 
We know such \ision comes no more. 

IV. 

With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her. 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chili 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed. 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her slesp she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams. 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 

And listen'd to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
As if the Archangel's voice he heard 2 
And well he may — a deeper dooai 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
When he shall wake to sleep no more. 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 



And whose that name? that o'er his pillow- 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more; — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
T is Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth. 
When lie betray'd Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VJI. 
He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath. 

But sheathed it ere the point was bare — 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping there — 
Nay, more : — he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance. 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big arrd damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber' d — 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found. 

In many a tale from those around, 

The proof of all he fear'd to know, 

Their present guilt, his future woe ; 

The long-couniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom to her 

Concealment is no more — they speak 

All circumstance which may compel 

Full credence to the tale they tell ; 

And Azo's tortured heart and ear 

Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 

Within the chamber of his state. 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate; 
His nobles and his guards are there,— 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his disgrace ! 
And yet he seems not overcome, 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

X. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering rpom! 



2o4 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Where high-born men were proud to wait — 


But here, upon the earth beneath, 


Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 


There is no spot where thou and I 


Her gentle voice, her lovely mien — 


Together, for an hour, could breathe : 


And gather from her air and gait 


Farewell ! I will not see thee die.— 


The graces of its queen : 


But thou, frail thing! shall view his head- 


Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 


Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 


A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 


Go ! woman of the wanton breast ! 


A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 


Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 


And made her quarrel all their own. 


Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 


Now, — -what is she? and what are they ? 


And joy thee in the life I give.» 


Can she command, or these obey? 




All silent and unheeding now, 


XIIL 


With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 


And here stern Azo hid his face — 


And folded arms, and freezing air, 


For on his brow the swelling vein 


And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 


Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 


Her knights and dames, her court — is there : 


The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 


And he, the chosen one, whose lance 


And therefore bow'd he for a space, 


Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 


And pass'd his shaking hand along 


Who — were his arm a moment free — 


His eye, to veil it from the throng; 


Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 


While Hugo raised his chained hands, 


The minion of his father's bride, — 


And for a brief delay demands 


He, too, is fetter d by her side ; 


His father's ear: the silent sire 


Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 


Forbids not what his words require. 


Less for her own despair than him : 




Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 


« It is not that I dread the death — 


Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 


For thou hast seen me by thy side 


Shining through the smoothest white 


All redly through the battle ride, 


That e'er did softest kiss invite — 


And that not once a useless brand 


Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 


Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 


To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 


Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 


Which glance so heavily, and fill, 


Than e'er can stain the axe of mine. 


As tear on tear grows gathering still. 


Thou gavest, and mayst resume my breath, 




A gift for which I thank thee not; 


XI. 


Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 


And he for her had also wept, 


Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 


But for the eyes that on him gazed : 


Her offspring's heritage of shame; 


His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 


But she is in the grave, where he, 


Stern and erect his brow was raised. 


Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 


Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 


Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 


lie would not shrink before the crowd ; 


Shall witness for thee from the dead 


But yet he dared not look on her: 


How trusty and how tender were 


Remembrance of the hours that were— 


Thy youthful love— paternal care. 


His guilt — his love — his present state — 


'T is true, that I have done thee wrong — 


His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 


But wrong for wrong — this deem'd thy bride, 


His earthly, his eternal fate — 


The other victim of thy pride, 


And hers, — oh, hers! — he dared not throw 


Thou know'st for me was destined long. 


One look upon that deathlike brow ! 


Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms — 


Else had his rising heart betray'd 


And with thy very crime — my birth, 


Remorse for all the wreck it made. 


Thou tauuted'st me — as little worth ; 




A match ignoble for her arms, 


xir. 


Because, forsooth, I could not claim 


And Azo spake : — « But yesterday 


The lawful heirship of thy name, 


I gloried in a wife and son ; 


Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 


That dream this morning pass'd away; 


Yet, were a few short summers mine, 


Ere day declines, I shall have none — 


My name should more than Este's shine 


My life must linger on alone. 


With honours all my own. 


Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 


I had a sword — and have a breast 


Who would not do as I have done: 


That should have won as haught 2 a crest 


Those ties are broken — not by me; 


As ever waved along the line 


Let that too pass; — the doom's prepared ! 


Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 


Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 


Not always knightly spurs are worn 


And then — thy crime's reward ! 


The brightest by the better born ; 


Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, 


And mine have lanced my courser's flank 


Before its evening stars are met — 


Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 


Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 


When charging to the cheering cry 


Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 


Of ' Este and of Victory !' 



PARISINA. 



205 



I will not plead the cause of crime, 


And those who saw, it did surprise, 


Nor sue thee to redeem from time 


Such drops could fall from human eyes. 


A few brief hours or days that must 


To speak she thought — the imperfect note 


At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 


Was choked within her swelling throat, 


Such maddening moments as my past, 


Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 


They could not, and they did not, last — 


Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 


Albeit my birth and name be base, 


It ceased — again she thought to speak, 


And thy nobility of race 


Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 


Disdaiu'd to deck a thing like me — 


And to the earth she fell like stone, 


Yet in my lineaments they trace 


Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 


Some features of my father's face, 


More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 


And in my spirit — all of thee. 


A monument of Azo's wife, — 


From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 


Than her, that living guilty thing, 


From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ? — 


Whose every passion was a sting, 


From thee in all their vigour came 


Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 


My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 


That guilt's detection and despair. 


Thou didst not give me life alone, 


But yet she lived — and all too soon 


But all that made me more thine own. 


Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 


See what thy guilty love hath done ! 


But scarce to reason — every sense 


Repaid thee with too like a son! 


Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 


I am no bastard in my soul, 


And each frail fibre of her brain 


For that, like thine, abhorr'd control: 


(As bow-strings, when relax'd by rain, 


And for my breath, that hasty boon 


The erring arrow launch aside) 


Thou gavest and wilt resume so soon, 


Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 


I valued it no more than thou, 


The past a blank, the future black, 


When rose thy casque above thy brow, 


With glimpses of a dreary track, 


And we, all side by side, have striven, 


Like lightning on the desert path, 


And o'er the dead our coursers driven. 


When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 


The past is nothing— and at last 


She fear'd — she felt that something ill 


The future can but be the past ; 


Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 


Yet would I that I then had died : 


That there was sin and shame she knew ; 


For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 


That some one was to die — but who ? 


And made thy own my destined bride, 


She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 


I feel thou art my father still ; 


Could this be still the earth beneath? 


And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 


The sky above, and men around? 


T is not unjust, although from thee. 


Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 


Begot in sin, to die in shame, 


On one, before whose eyes each eye 


My life begun and ends the same : 


Till then had smiled in sympathy? 


As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 


All was confused and undefined, 


Aud thou must punish both in one. 


To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 


My crime seems worst to human view, 


A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 


But God must judge between us two !» 


And now in laughter, now in tears, 




But madly still in each extreme, 


XIV. 


She strove with that convulsive dream — 


He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 


For so it seem'd on her to break : 


On which the circling fetters sounded ; 


Ob ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 


And not an ear but felt as wounded, 




Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd 


XV. 


When those dull chains in meeting clank'd : 


Till Parisina's fatal charms 


The convent bells are ringing, 


Again attracted every eye — 


But mournfully and slow; 


Would she thus hear him doom'd to die? 


In the grey square turret swinging, 


She stood, I said, all pale and still, 


With a deep sound, to and fro. 


The living cause of Hugo's ill : 


Heavily to the heart they go ! 


Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 


Hark ! the hymn is singing — 


Not once had turn'd to either side — 


• The song for the dead below, 


Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 


Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 


Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 


For a departing being's soul 


But round their orbs of deepest blue 


The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll 


The circling white dilated grew — 


He is near his mortal goal ; 


And there with glassy gaze she stood 


Kneeling at the'friar's knee ; 


As ice were in her curdled blood; 


Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 


But every now and then a tear, 


Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 


So large and slowly gather'd, slid 


With the block before and the guards around — 


From the long dark fringe of that fair lid. 


And the heads-man with his bare arm ready, 


It was a thing to see, not hear! 


That the blow may be both swift and steady, 



200 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the son fall by the doom of the father. 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the summer sun shall set, 

Which rose upon that heavy day, 

And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 

And his evening beams are shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As, his last confession pouring 

To the monk his doom deploring, 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends to hear his accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head did glisten 

As he there did bow and listen, 

And the rings of chesunt hair 

Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 

L!ut brighter still the beam was thrown 

Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted, 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 

'T is done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renew'd, 

W T hen heads-man's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind 

As if they dared not look on death. 

« No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike :» — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke : 

« Strike » — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head— and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died, as erring man should die, 
Without display, without parade ; 



Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while, before the prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling, 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the heads-man's stroke, 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
His sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran, 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him whose life and love thus ended ; 

And with a hushing sound comprest, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill — so passing wild 1 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul's in endless woe. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ■ 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like words of wantonness or fear; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they; 

Theirs was uneonsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the heads-man's shock, 



PARISINA. 



207 



In quicken'd brokenness that came, 
In pity, o'er her shattered frame, 
None knew — and none can ever know ; 
But whatsoe'er its end below, 
Her life began and closed in woe ! 3 

XX. 

And Azo fonud anotber bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither'd in the grave ; 

Or, if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smotber'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended ; 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirth or woe : 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intently thought— intensely felt: 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below, 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which nature hath implanted, 

Too deeply rooted thence to vanish : 

Howe'er our stifled tears wc banish, 

When, struggling as they rise to start, 

We check those waters of the heart, 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain head, 

And, resting in their spring more pure, 

For ever in its depth endure, 

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 

And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 

With inward starts of feeling left, 

To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 

Without the power to fill again 

The desert gap which made his pain ; 

Without the hope to meet them where 

United souls shall gladness share, 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only pass'd a just decree ; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree, 

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe. 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 202, line 14. 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 

The lines contained in Section I were printed as set to 

music some time since : but belonged to the poem where 

they now appear, the greater part of which was composed 

prior to « Lara,» and other compositions since published. 

Note 2. Page 204, line 117. 

That should have won as haught a crest. 

Haught — haughty : — 

« Away, haught man, thou art insulting me.» 

Shj.kspeake • Richard II. 

Note 3. Page 207, line 5. 
Her life began and closed in woe. 

« This turned out a calamitous year for the people of 
Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the 
court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and 
in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolished and 
negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the 
following relation of it, from which, however, are re- 
jected many details, and especially the narrative of 
Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, and who 
does not accord with the contemporary historians. 

« By the above mentioned Stella dell' As-assino, the 
Marquis, in the year 1400, had a sou called Ugo, a beau- 
tiful and ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers 
treated him with little kindrress, to the infinite regret of 
the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality 
One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake 
certain journey, to which he consented, but upon cf 
dition that Ugo should bear her company ; for he he 
by these means to induce her, in the end, to lay asid 
obstinate aversion which she had conceived again- ■ 
And indeed his intent was accomplished but to 
since, during the journey, she not only divested 
of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite 
After their return, the Marquis had no longer 
sion to renew his former reproofs. It happen 
that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, r 
call him, Giorgio, passing before the ap^. t 
Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she 
told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had 
been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to 
make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted 
between Parisina and her step-son. The servant took 
note of the words, and related them to his master. He 
was astounded thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, 
he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 
ibth of May, by looking through a hole made in the 
ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into 
a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with 
Aldobrandino B_augoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
brought to a hasty trial, desiring thejudges to pronounce 
sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the culprits. 
This sentence was death. Some there were that bestirred 
themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, amongst 
others, Ugocciou Contrario, who was all-powerful with 



208 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Niccolo, and also his aged and much-deserving minister 
Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing 
down their cheeks, and upon their kneess, implored him 
for mercy : adducing -whatever reasons they could sug- 
gest for sparing the offenders, besides those motives of 
honour and decency which might persuade him to con- 
ceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But his rage 
made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he commanded 
that the sentence should be put in execution. 

« It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and 
exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen at 
this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the 
foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecea^ 
that on the night of the twenty-first of May were be- 
headed, first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that 
accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the 
place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she 
was to be thrown into a pit, and asked, at every step, 
whether she was yet come to the spot ? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what 
was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he 
was already dead; at the which, sighing grievously, she 
exclaimed, 'Now, then, I wish not myself to live;' and 
being come to the block, she stripped herself with her 
own hands of all her ornaments, and, wrapping a cloth 
round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke which 
terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with 
Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to 
two calendars in the library of St Francesco, was buried 
in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else is known 
respecting the women. 

« The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful 
ight, and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, 



inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead 
yet ? who answered him, Yes. He then gave himself 
up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, 
« Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried on 
to resolve thus against my own Ugo !» And then gnaw- 
ing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, he 
passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling 
frequently upon his own dear Ugo. On fhe following 
day, calling totmind that it would be necessary to make 
public his justification, seeing that the transaction could 
not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be drawn 
out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of Italy. 

« On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Fran- 
cesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his 
reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for a 
tournament, which, under the auspices of the Marquis, 
and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about to 
take place, in the square of St Mark, in order to cele- 
brate his advancement to the ducal chair. 

« The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as were 
well known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, 
should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Barba- 
rina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of the 
court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual place 
of execution, that is to say, in the quarter of St Giacomo, 
opposite the present fortress, beyond St Paul's. It can- 
not be told how strange appeared this proceeding in a 
prince, who, considering his own disposition, should, as it 
seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. Some, 
however, there were, who did not fail to commend him.» ' 
1 Frizzi — History of Ferrara. 



mje ^vmottev of ^fnilon* 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 



And 



(J , spirit of the chainless mind! 
gl est in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, 
I ?re thy habitation is the heart — 
; which love of thee alone can bind; 
i thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To Fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace, 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard! ' — May none those marks efface! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



i. 

My hair is grey, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night, 2 
As men's have grown from sudden fears 



My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith: 
I suffer'd chains and courted death : 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied : 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

IL 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 









THE PRISONER 


OF CHILLON. 


209 


A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 


V. 




And through the crevice and the cleft 


The other was as pure of mind, 




Of the thick -wall is fallen and left, 


But form'd to combat with his kind : 




Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 


Strong in his frame, and of a mood 




Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 


Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 




And in each pillar there is a ring, 


And perish'd in the foremost rank 




And in each ring there is a chain ; 


With joy : — but not in chains to pine ; 




That iron is a cankering thing, 


His spirit wither'd with their clank, 




For in these limbs its teeth remain, 


I saw it silently decline — 




With marks that will not wear away, 


And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 




Till I have done with this new day, 


But yet I forced it on to cheer 




Which now is painful to these eyes, 


Those relics of a home so dear. 




Which have not seen the sun so rise 


He was a hunter of the hills, 




For years— I cannot count them o'er, 


Had follow'd there the deer and wolf : 




I lost their long and heavy score, 


To him this dungeon was a gulf, 




When my last brother droop'd and died, 


And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 




And I lay living by his side. 


VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 




III. 




They chain'd us each to a column stone, 


A thousand feet in depth below 




And we were three — yet, each alone ; 


Its massy waters meet and flow ; 




We could not move a single pace, 


Thus much the fathom-line was sent 




We could not see each other's face, 


From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 3 




But with that pale and livid light 


Which round about the wave enthrals : 




That made us strangers in our sight : 


A double dungeon wall and wave 




And thus together — yet apart, 


Have made — and like a living grave. 




Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart — 


Below the surface of the lake 




'T was still some solace, in the dearth 


The dark vault lies wherein we lay : 




Of the pure elements of earth, 


We heard it ripple night and day, 




To hearken to each other's speech, 


Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 




And each turn comforter to each, 


And I have felt the winter's spray 




With some new hope, or legend old, 


Wash through the bars when winds were 1 


igh 


Or song heroically bold : 


And wanton in the happy sky; 


1 


But even these at length grew cold. 


And then the very rock hath rock'd, 




Our voices took a dreary tone, 


And I have felt it shake unshock'd, 




An echo of the dungeon-stone. 


Because I could have smiled to see 




A grating sound — not full and free 


The death that would have set me free. 




As they of yore were wont to be : 






It might be fancy — but to me 


VII. 




They never sounded like our own. 


I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 




IV. 


He loathed and put away his food ; 




I was the eldest of the three, 


It was not that 't was coarse and rude, 




And to uphold and cheer the rest 


For we were used to hunters' fare, 




I ought to do — and did my best — 


And for the like had little care. 




And each did well in his degree. 


The milk drawn from the mountain goat 


i 


The youngest, whom my father loved, 


Was changed for water from the moat ; 




Because our mother's brow was given 


Our bread was such as captives' tears 




To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 


Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 




For him my soul was sorely moved : 


Since man first pent his fellow men 




And truly might it be distrest 


Like brutes within an iron den : 




To see such bird in such a nest ; 


But what were these to us or him ? 




For he was beautiful as day— 


These wasted not his heart or limb ; 




(When day was beautiful to me 


My brother's soul was of that mould 




As to young eagles, being free) — 


Which in a palace had grown cold, 




A polar day, which will not see 


Had his free breathing been denied 




A sunset till its summer 's gone, 


The range of the steep mountain's side. 




Its sleepless summer of long light, 


But why delay the truth ?— he died. 




The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 


I saw and could not hold his head, 




And thus he was as pure and bright, 


Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 




And in his natural spirit gay, 


Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 




With tears for nought but others' ills, 


To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 




And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 


He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 




Unless he could assuage the woe 


And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 




Which he abhorr'd to view below. 


Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

27 


1 

I 



210 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine : it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his free-born breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
T might have spared my idle prayer— 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

Till. 

But he , the favourite and the flower, 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was wither'd on the stalk away. 

Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood. 

I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion; 

I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender-kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot ; 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew : 



The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befel me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey — 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacaucy absorbing space ; 
And fixedness without a place: 
There were no stars— no earth — no time- 
No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard : 
And mine was thankful, till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery. 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track : 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before; 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done ; 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



21 i 



And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought! the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile — 
I sometimes deem'd tbat it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me; 
Dut then at last away it flew, 
And then 't was mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was: my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 
I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me in a human shape, 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me. 
No child— no sire— no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery: 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad. 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more upon the mountains high 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow : 



I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channel!' d rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the white-walld distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down; 
And then there was a little isle,4 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all: 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought' to save; 
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

1 kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where : 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be — 

I learn'd to love despair. 
Aud thus when they appear'd at last. 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell : 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are: — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES. 



Note i. Page 208, Sonnet, line i3. 
By Bonnirard ! — may none those marks efface '. 
Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, 
iginaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Limes, naquit en 



212 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1496; il fit ses etudes a Turin. En i5io Jeau-Aime 
de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de Saint- 
Victor, qui aboutissait aux murs de Geneve, et qui 
f'oi -mait un benefice considerable. 

Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la 
force de son ame, la droiture de son cceur, la noblesse 
de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage 
de ses demarches, l'etendue de ses connoissances, et la 
vivacite de son esprit), ce grand homme, qui excitera 
l'admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu heroique peut 
encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive recon- 
naissance dans les coeurs des Genevois qui aiment Ge- 
neve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes 
appuis: pour assurer la liberte de notre republique, il 
lie craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia 
son repos ; il meprisa ses riehesses; il ne negligea rien 
pour affermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de 
son choix : des ce moment il la cherit comme le plus 
zele de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec 1'intrepidite d'un 
heros, et il ecrivait son histoire avec la naivete d'un 
philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

11 dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Ge- 
neve, que, des qu'il eut commence de lire I'histoire des 
nations, il se sentit entraine par son gout pour les re- 
publiques, dontil epousa toujours les inlerets: c'est ce 
gout pour la liberte qui lui fit sans doute adopter Ge- 
neve pour sa patrie. 

Bonnivard, encore jeune,s'annoncahautement comme 
le defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et l'e- 
veque. 

En 1 519, Bonnivard devintle martyr de sa patrie : le 
Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq cents 
hommes, Bonnivard craignit le ressentiment du due; il 
voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour en eviter les suites; 
mais il fut trahi par deuxhommes qui l'accompagnaient, 
et conduit par ordre du prince a Grolee, ou il resta pri- 
sonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etait malheureux 
dans ses voyages; comme ses malheurs n'avaient point 
ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi 
redoutable pour ceux qui la menacait, et par conse- 
quent il devait etre expose a leurs coups. II fut rencontre 
en i53o surle Jura, par des voleurs qui le depouillerent, 
et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du Due de Sa- 
voye: ce prince le fit enfermer dans le chateau de 
Ghillon, ou il resta sans etre interroge jusqu'en i536; 
il fut alors delivre par les Bernois, qui s'emparerent du 
pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
trouver Geneve libre et reformee : la republique s'em- 
pressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de le de- 
dommager des maux qu'il avait soufferts ; elle le recul 
bourgeois de la ville au mois de juin i536; elle lui 
donna la maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-Ge- 
neral, et elle lui assigna une pension de 200 ecus d'or 
tant qu'il scjournerait a Geneve. II fut admis dans le 
Conseil des Deux-Cents en i53y. 

Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : apres avoir tra- 
vaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tole- 
rante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux 
ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un temps suffisant pour 
examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisait ; il reussit 
par sa douceur: on preche toujours le christianisme 
avec succes quand on le preche avec charite. 

Bonnivard fut savant: ses manuscrits, qui sont dans 
la bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien hi les 
auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avait approfondi la 



theologie et I'histoire. Ce grand homme aimait les 
sciences, et il croyait qu'elles pouvaient faire k gloire 
de Geneve; aussi il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans 
cette ville naissante; en i55i, il donna sa bibliotheque 
au public; elle fut le commencement de notre biblio- 
theque publique; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et 
belles editions du quinzieme siecle qu'on voit dans notre 
collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, ce bon pa- 
triote institua la republique son heritiere, a condition 
quelle emploierait ses biens a entretenir le college dont 
on projetait la fondation. 

II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne 
peut l'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le Necro- 
loge depuis le mois de juillet 1570 jusqu'en iSyi. 

Note 2, Page 208, line 3. 
In a single night. 
Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI, though 
not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have 
the same effect: to such, and not to fear, this change 
in hers was to be attributed. 

Note 3. Page 209, line 81. 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 

The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens 
and Villeneuve; which last is at one extremity of the 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the 
range of Alps above Boveret and St Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent; below it, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed *o the 
depth of 800 feet (French measure): within it are a 
range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and 
subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across 
one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which 
we were informed that the condemned were formerly 
executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or rather eight, 
one being half-merged in the wall; in some of these 
are rings for the fetters and the fettered ; in the pave- 
ment the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces — he 
was confined here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the cata- 
strophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her chil- 
dren by Julie from the water: the shock of which, and 
the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
her death. 

The chateau is large, and seeu along the lake for a 
great distance. The walls are white. 

Note 4- Page 211, line 65. 

And then there was a little isle. 
Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only 
one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the 
lake, within its circumference. It contains a few trees 
(I think not above three), and from its singleness and 
diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was not 
sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I 
should have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an 
attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some 
account of his life will be found in a note appended to 
the « Sonnet on Chillon," with which I have been fur- 
nished by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, 
which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy of 
the best age of ancient freedom. 



BEPPO. 



A VENETIAN STORY. 



Ro«alind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you, lisp, and wear strange suits ; disable all the 
benefits of your own country ; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making; 
you that countenance you are ; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. 

As You Like It, Act XV. Scene I. 

Annotation of the Commentators. 
That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, 
and was then what Paris is noiv— the seat of all dissoluteness. — S. A. 



I. 

'T is known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buy repentance ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank or low their station, 

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, 

And other things that may be had for i 



II. 

The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies (and the more duskily the better), 

The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter; 

And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; 

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos; 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 
All people, as their fancies hit, may chuse; 

But. no one in these parts may quiz the clergy — 

Therefore take heed, ye freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 

You 'd better walk about begirt with briars, 
Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 

Although you swore it only was in fun : 

They 'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 

Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 



But, saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like, by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke; 

And even in Italy such places are, 

With prettier names in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covent-garden, I can hit on 

No place that 's call'd « Piazza >» in Great Britain. 



VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which, being 
Interpreted, implies « farewell to flesh :» 

So call'd, because, the name and thing agreeing, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

'T is as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causes many « poohs » and « pishes,» 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse) 

From travellers accustom'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy : 

VIII. 
And therefore humbly I would recommend 

«The curious in fish-sauce, » before they cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss), 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye; 

IX. 

That is to say, if your religion 's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Piomans do, 

According to the proverb, — although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you, 

If protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Dine, and be d — d!— I don't mean to be coarse — 

But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 



Of all the places where the Carnival 

Was most facetious in the days of yore, 
For dance and song, and serenade, and ball, 

And masque and mime, and mystery, and more 
Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 

Venice the bell from every city bore ; 
And at the moment when I fix my story, 

That sea-born city was in all her glory. 



2l4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XI. 

They 've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 

Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still, 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's 

(The best 's at Florence — see it, if ye will), 

They look when leaning over the balcony, 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 
Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show: 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 

And that 's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
T is but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
And self: but such a woman! love in life! 

XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
But something better still, so very real, 

That the sweet model must have been the same : 
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 

Were 't not impossible, besides a shame: 
The face recals some face, as 't were with pain, 
You once have seen, but ne'er will see again : 

XIV. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; 

And, oh! the loveliness at times we see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree 
In many a nameless being we retrace, 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know. 

Like the lost Pleiad, 1 seen no more below. 

XV. 

I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
Venetian women were, and so they are, 

Particularly seen from a balcony 

(For beauty 's sometimes best set off afar) ; 

And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

And, truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty, 

And rather like to show it, more s the pity ! 

XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 

Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 

Who do such things because they know no better; 

And then, God knows what mischief may arise, 
When love links two young people in one fetter, 

Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, 

Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
And to this day from Venice to Verona, 

Such matters may be probably the same, 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a « cavalier servente.» 



XVIII. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Ts of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's. 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 

You should not, I '11 describe it you exactly; 

'T is a long covered boat that 's common here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly: 

Bow'd by two rowers, each call'd « Gondolier,» 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 

Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 

Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow ; 

And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wait in their dusk livery of woe; 

But not to them do woful things belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral 's done. 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'T was some years ago, 
It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 

The Carnival was at its height, and so 
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 

A certain lady went to see the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 

And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please, 

Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a « certain age,» 

Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
To name, define by speech, or write on page, 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time return'd the compliment, 

And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went: 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent; 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 't is convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 't is a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
Whereas if single ladies play the fool 

(Unless, within the period intervenient, 

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool), 

I don't know how they ever can get over it, 

Except they manage never to discover it. 



BEPPO. 



21 5 



XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 
(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 

His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship wi_h ease : 

He was a merchaut trading to Aleppo, 

T'is name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 2 

xxvr. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; 

Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigour — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard : 

And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder' d into debt, 

And did not like the thoughts of steering home; 
And there were several offer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing render' d sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

xxvni. 

'T is said that their last parting was pathetic, 
As partings often are, or ought to be, 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see 

(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 

Which I have known occur in two or three), 

When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 

He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; 

She almost lost all appetite for victual, 

And could not sleep with ease alone at night; 

She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 

XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not chuse, 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 

Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice : 

A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a count, and then he knew 

Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan; 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas too, 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried «seccatura.» 



XXXII. 

His « bravow was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd « academic» sigh'd in silent awe; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 

The « prima donna's» tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his « bah !» 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronized the improvvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous; 

So that no sort of female could complain, 
Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 

He never put the pretty souls in pain : 
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 

Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school, 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady : 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead ; he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin), 

'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men : 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But « Cavalier Serventes» are quite common, 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A second marriage which corrupts the first. 

XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a « Cicisbeo,» 

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a « Cortejo,* 3 

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent: 

In short it reaches from the Fo to Teio, 

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 

To the fair single part of the creation, 
That married ladies should preserve the preference 

In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 
And this 1 say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
And being natural, naturally please. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXIX. 

'T is true, your budding Miss is very charming, 

But shy and awkward at first coming out; 
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming; 

All giggle, blush; half pertness, and half pout; 
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there 's harm in 

What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
The nursery still lisps out in all they utter- 
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But « Cavalier Servente» is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy 's a pleasant place to me, 
Who love to see the sun shine every day, 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance, 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 

I like on autumn evenings to ride out, 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 

My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 
Because the skies are not the most secure : 

I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
Where the green alleys windingly allure, 

Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way — 

In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 
I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the sun set, sure he '11 rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning, twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all heaven t' himself; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing-candle light, which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. 

XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet south, 

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
That not a single accent seems uncouth, 

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 

Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 

XLV. 

I like the women too (forgive my folly), 

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 



XLVI. 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael, 4 who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeathed us!— in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
While yet Canova can create below.* 

XL VII. 

« England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it : 

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; 

I like the government (but that is not it); 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); 

I like a parliamentary debate, 

Particularly wben t is not too late; 

XLVIII. 
I like the taxes, when they're not too many; 

I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the regent, church, and king! 
Which means, that I like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 

Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt, 

Our little riots just to show we are freemen, 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories, 

And wish they were not owing to the tories. 

L. 

But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease— 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 

And, caring little for the author's ease, 
Insist on knowing what he means — a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh ! that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems never known to fail, 

How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian talc; 

And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 

Some samples of the finest orientalism. 

* Note. 

In talking thus, the writer more especially 

Of women, would be understood to say, 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially, 

And always, reader, in a modest way. 
Perhaps, too, in no very grjatdegree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 

Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets. 
(Signed) Pbihter's Devii 



BEPPO. 



2 I 



LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person 
(A broken dandy lately on my travels), 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first tbat Walkers Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils: 

I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 

Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 
For half a dozen years -without estrangement : 

They had their little differences too ; 
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 

In such affairs there probably are few 
Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 
From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 
But on the whole they were a happy pair, 

As happy as unlawful love could make them; 
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 

Their chains so slight, 't was not worthwhile tobreak 
them: 
The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 

The pious only wish'd « the devil take them!» 
He took them not; he very often waits, 
And leaves old sinners to be young ones* baits. 

LV. 
But they were young : ! what without our youth 

Would love be ! What would vouth be without love ! 
Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above : 
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 

One of few things experience don't improve, 
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
Are always so preposterously jealous. 

Lvr. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 

Laura the usual preparations made, 

Which you do when your mind's made up to go 

To-night to Mrs Boehm's masquerade, 
Spectator or partaker in the show ; 

The only difference known between the cases 

Is — here, we have six weeks of « varnish'd faces. » 

LVII. 

Laura, when drest, was ( as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the angel o'er a new inn-door, 

Or frontispiece of a new magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

LVIIL 
They went to the Ridotto ;— t is a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again : 
Its proper name, perhaps, were a mask'd ball, 

But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
'Tis (on a smaller scale) like cur Vauxhall, 

Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
The company is « mixta (the phrase 1 quote is, 
As much as saying, they 're beiow your notice) ; 



LIX. 

For a « mixt company» implies, that, save 

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 

Whom you: may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, called « the ivorld;» but I, 

Although I know them, really don't know why. 

LX. 

This is the case in England ,• at least was 

During the dynasty of dandies, now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Of imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion: all below 
Is frail; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock' d his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 

A blundering novice in his new French grammar: 

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
And as for fortune — but I dare not d — n her. 

Because were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage; 

I cannot say that she s done much for me yet; 
Not that 1 mean her bounties to disparage : 

We vc not yet closed accounts, aud we shall see yet 
How much she '11 make amends for past miscarriage: 

Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune, 

Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. 

LX1II. 
To turn, — and to return; — the devil take it, 

This story slips for ever through my lingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers : 
This form of verse begun, I can 't well break it, 

But must keep time aud tune like public singers; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I 11 take another when I 'm next at leisure. 

LXIV. 

They weut to the Ridotto — 'tis a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 

Because I 'in rather hippish,.and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I '11 make or find 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind. 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avov.'d, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, — she sips; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 

28 



! 2l8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 

A third — -where did she huy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint; 
A fifth's lock 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban ; 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint; 

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane; 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — « I'll see no more !» 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, -while she -was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her; 

She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir. 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That at her time of life so many -were 

Admirers still, — but men are se debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVII 1. 
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

Why naughty -women but I -won't discuss 

A thing -which is a scandal to the land, 

I only don't see -why it should be thus; 
And if I were but in a gown and band, 

Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I 'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 

LXLX. 

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 

So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

And well-drest males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 

With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad; 
'T is said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines «ad libitum. » 

LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the case with northern nations : 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 

Their days are either past in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love and clothing. 

LXXII. 

They cannot read, aud so don't lisp in criticism; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 

But luckily these beauties are no « blues,» 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
« That charming passage in the last new poem.» 



LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame, 

And getting but a nibble at a time, 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small « Triton of the minnows, » the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy-bards — in short, a fool! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 

The approving « Good.'* (by no means good in law) 
Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw; 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 

One don't know what to say to them, or think, 

Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others, 

Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

S — tt, R s, M — re, and all the better brothers, 

Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the « mighty mother's,* 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily « tea is ready,** 

Snug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people; 

And one would seem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; 

I think 't would almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 

No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners as they pass us; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 

And as, perhaps, they wonld not highly flatter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose; 

I fear I have a little turn for satire, 

And yet methinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 



BEPPO. 



2ig 



LXXX. 

Oh, mirth and innocence! oh, milk and water! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reigu of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

Lxxxr. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, « Madam, I do you honour, 
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay.» 

Could staring win a woman this had won her, 
But Laura could not thus be led astray; 

She had stood fire too long and well to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

Lxxxir. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of lime at which I would advise 

Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise, 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 

Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 

His blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 

I've seen some balls and revels in my time, 
And staid them over for some silly reason, 

And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
To see what lady best stood out the season; 

And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, 
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 

I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn), 

Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIV. 
The name of this .Aurora I '11 not mention, 

Although I might, for she was nought to me 
More than that patent work of God's invention, 

A charming woman, whom we like to see; 
But writing names would merit reprehension, 

Yet, if you like to find out this fair she, 
At the next London or Parisian ball 
You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the day-light after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball, 

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 

And they the room were on the point of quitting, 

When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVT. 

In this they 're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
They make a never-intermitted bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 



LXXXV1I. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 

Discussing all the dances <jone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; 

Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide), 

Sate Laura by the side of her adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

Lxxxviir. 

«Sir,» said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
« Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import ! But perhaps 't is a mistake ; 

I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 

All compliment, I hope so for your sake; N 

You understand my meaning, or you shall. » 

« Sir,» (quoth the Turk) «'tis no mistake at all. 

LXXXIX. 

« That lady is my wife /» Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright; 

They only call a little on their saints, 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite; 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 
She said, — what could she say? why, not a word: 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard: 

«Such things perhaps we 'd best discuss within, » 
Said he; « don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

XCI. 

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd, — it came, 
A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 

Although the way they make it 's not the same. 
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 

To speak, cries « Beppo! what's your pagan name? 
Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 

And how came you to keep away so long? 

Are you not sensible 't was very wrong? 

XCII. 

« And are you really, truly, now a Turk? 

With any other women did you wive? 
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork? 

Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive! 
You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever? No, 1 never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver? 

XCIII. 

« Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you're a day older ; 
Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? 
How do I look? You sha'n't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholdei 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it's grown !-> 



2 20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XGIV. 

What answer Deppo made to these demands, 
Is more than I know. He was cast away 

About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
Became a slave, of course, and for his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 

He join' d the rogues and prosper'd, and became 

A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 

He thought himself in duty bound lo do so, 
And not be always thieving on the main : 

Lonely he felt, at times, as Bobin Crusoe ; 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 

Mound for Corfu ; she was a fine polacca, 

Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

XCVI. 

Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten) cash 
He (hen embark'd, with risk of life and limb, 

And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
He said that Providence protected him — 

For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
Jn our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 

Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 

Except three days of calm ■when off Cape Bonn. 

XCVII. 
They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading. 

And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 
And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 

With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 
However, he got off by this evading, 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
I And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
IS is wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 



XCVIH. 

His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him 
(He made the church a present by the way) ; 

He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes for a day: 

His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
Finding he 'd wherewithal to make them gay 

With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them 

For stories, — but / don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er his youth had suf fer'd, his old age 

With wealth and talking made him some amends; 

Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 

I 've heard the Count and he were always friends. 

My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 

T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 

But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



NOTES. 



Notei. Stanza xiv, line 8. 

Like the lost Pleiad, seen no more below. 

« Quae sepiem dici sex tamen esse solent.n — Oviu. 

Note 2. Stanza xxv, line 8. 
His name. Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 
!>ej>po is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxvii, line 3. 
The Spaniards call the person a « Cortejo.» 
« Cortejo» is pronounced « Corte/io,» with an as- 
pirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
though the practice is as common as in any tramontane 
country whatever. 

Note 4- Stanza xlvi, line 3. 
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies. 
For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's 
death, see his Lives. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

« Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un 
j gcntilhomme polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le 
J palatinat de Padolie ; il avait ete eleve page de Jean- 
] Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour queique teinture des 
j belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse 
avec la femme d'un gentilhomme polonais ayant etc 
decouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval 
farouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui 
etait du pays de 1'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Ma- 
zeppa demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques 
paysans le secoururent: il resta long-temps parmi eux, 
ct sesignala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. 
La superiorite de scs lumieres lui donna une grande 
consideration parmi, les Cosaques : sa reputation , s'aug- 
mentant de jour en jour, obligea le czar a le faire 
prince de l'Ukraine.» 

Voltaire, Histoire de Charles XI (, p. 196. 



« Le roi, fuyant et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue sous 
lui; le Colonel Gieta, blesse et perdant tout son sang, 
lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, 
dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y monter 
pendant la bataille.» 

Voltaire, Histoire de Charles XII, p. 2 16. 



« Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques ca- 
valiers. Le carrosse ou il etait rompit dans la marche : 
on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il 
s'egara pendant lanuit dans un bois; la, son courage 
ne pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, les dou- 
leurs de sa blessure devenues plus iusupportables par 
la fatigue, son cheval etant tombe de lassitude, il se 
coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger 
d'etre surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs qui le 
cherchaiont de tous cotes.» 

Voltaire, Histoire de Charles XII, p. 218. 



MAZEPPA. 



11 



MAZEPPA. 



i. 

'T was after dread Pultov/a's day, 

"When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughtered army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and [[lory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
Until a day more dark and drear, 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 

II. 

Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night through field and flood, 

Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard to upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When truth had nought to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own— and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In out-worn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
King-like the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will; 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 

III. 

A band of chiefs!— alas ! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous ; upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute. 

Beside his monarch and his steed. 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold; 



But first, outspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed, 

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
And joy'd to sec how well he fed; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browze beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord, 
And little cared for bed and board ; 
But spirited and docile too, 
Whale'er was to be done, would do ; 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
All Tartar-like he carried him; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
And knew him in the midst of all : 
Though thousands were around, — and night. 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 

IV. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak, 

Felt if his arms in order good 

The long day's march had well withstood — 

If still the powder fill'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen' d kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man, 
From out his haversack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and Ids men 
The whole or portion offer'd then, 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show, 
And seem above both wounds and woe ; — 
And then he said — « Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said, or more have done, 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou: 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field. » 
Mazeppa auswer'd — « 111 betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride !» 
Quoth Charles — «01d hetman, wherefore so, 
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ?» 
Mazeppa said — «'T were long fcj tell; 
And we have many a league to go 
With every now and then a blow, 
And ten to one at least the foe, 
Before our steeds may graze at ease 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest 

And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop." — « But I request, » 
Said Sweden's monarch, «thou wilt tell 



2 22 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



This tale of thine, and I may reap 
Perchance from this the boon of sleep ; 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies. » 

«Well, sire, -with such a hope, I '11 track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 't was in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, 't was, — when Gasimir was king — 
John Gasimir, — I was his page 
Six summers in my earlier age ; 
A learned monarch, faith! was he, 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reign'd in most unseemly quiet; 
Not that he had no cares to vex, 
He loved the muses and the sex ; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
They made him wish himself at war; 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates - 
To gaze upon his splendid court, 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port: 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one, 
Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes, Despairing Thirsis. 
There was a certain Palatine, 
A count of far and high descent, 

Rich as a salt or silver mine; • 
And he was proud, ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he had been sent : 
He had such wealth in blood and ore, 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 

He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her count with titles given, 
'T is said, as passports into heaven; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these who have deserved them most. 

V. 

«I was a goodly stripling then; 
At seventy years I so may say, 

1 This comparison of a a sale mine * may perhaps be permitted to 
a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists greatly in the salt mines. 



That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning lime of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
A port not like to this you see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war, have plough' d 
My very soul from out my brow; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday. 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 

But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chesnut's bough, 

The memory is so quick and warm; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise at midnight; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 

Transparent with the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love her still; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI. 

« We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 

She did not speak, and yet replied; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought. 

And form a strange intelligence, 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds, 

Without their will, young hearts and minds; 

Conveying, as the electric wire, 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 

And still reluctant distance kept, 



MAZEPPA. 



223 



Until I was made known to her, 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak , 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play, 

Wherewith we while away the day; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I wateh'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 

Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 

Then through my brain the thought did pas 

Even as a flash of lightning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth, 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listen'd — 't is enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuff. 



VII. 



« I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties : if 't is true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain, 
To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o'er their passions, or, as you, 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather was — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control. — But to resume : 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom, 

But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour, which doth recal 
In the long lapse from youth to age 
No other like itself — I 'd give 
The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 



And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven ; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 



VII I. 

« For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us : — the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 

The devil ! — I 'm loth to do him wrong, 
It might be some untoward saint, 

Who would not be at rest too long, 
But to his pious bile gave vent — 

But one fair night, some lurking spies 

Surprised and seized us both. 

The count was something more than wroth — 

I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 

All cap-a-pie, from head to heel, 

What 'gainst their numbers could I do? — 

'T was near his castle, far away 
From city or from succour near, 

And almost on the break of day : 

I did not think to see another, 

My moments seem'd reduced to few; 

And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
And, it may be, a saint or two, 

As I resigu'd me to my fate, 

They led me to the castle gate: 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 

Our lot was henceforth separate. — 

Au angry man, ye may opine, 

Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 

And he had reason good to be, 

But he was most enraged lest such 
An accident should chance to toucli 

Upon his future pedigree; 

Nor less amazed, that such a blot 

His noble scutcheon should have got, 

While he was highest of his line : 
Because unto himself he seem'd 
The first of men, nor less he deem'd 

In others' eyes, and most in mine, 

'Sdealh! with a page — perchance a king 

Had reconciled him to the thing : 

But with a stripling of a page — 

I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 



IX. 

« ' Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brought ; 

In truth he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs : but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

"T was but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread, 
To me the desert-born was led : 



9.24 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 



X. 

« Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 

I saw not where he hurried on: 

T was scarcely yet the break of day, 

And on iie foam'd — away! — away! — 

The last of human sounds which rose, 

As 1 was darted from my foes, 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 

And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse; but midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis weight, 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements ail cleft, 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance proof. 

They little thought that 'day of pain, 
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day 1 should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank, 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank : 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sels all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long, 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 



XI. 

« Away, away, my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind, 
All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequer'd with the northern light : 
Town — village — none were on our track, 
But a wild plain of far extent, 



And bounded by a forest black : 

And, save the scarce-seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old, 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — ■ 
The sky was dull, and dim, and grey, 
And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
1 could have answer'd with a sigh — 
Cut fast we fled, away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane : 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career : 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slacken'd in his speed : 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became: 
Each motion which 1 made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 
Increased his fury and affright: 
I tried my voice, — 't was faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

« We near'd the wild wood. — 't was so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'T was studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 

And strips the forest in its haste,-— 

But these were few, and far between, 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 

Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 

Upon the slain when battle 's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless head, 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. 

'T was a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chesnut stood, 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it. were, 
Or else a different lot were mine. — 
The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my held. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind : 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 



MAZEPPA. 



29,r» 



With their long gallop, which can tire 

The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire: 

■Where'er we flew they follovv'd on, 

Nor left us with the morning sun ; 

Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 

At day-break winding through the wood, 

And through the night had heard their feet 

Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 

Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 

At least to die amidst the horde, 

And perish — if it must be so — 

At bay, destroying many a foe. 

When first my courser's race begun, 

I wish'd the goal already won ; 

But now I doubted strength and speed. 

Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 

Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; 

Nor faster falls the blinding snow 

Which whelms the peasant near the door 

Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 

Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 

Than through the forest-paths he past — 

Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; 

Ail furious as a favour'd child 

Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still — 

A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XIII. 

«The wood was past; 't was more than noon; 

But chill the air, although in June; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold : 

And I was then not what I seem, 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er: 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 

The rattle-snake's, in act to strike : 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk? 

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 

T seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther : he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 



Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 

Fever begins upon the brain ; 

But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 

Dying, to feel the same again; 

And yet I do suppose we must 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 

No matter; I have bared my brow 

Full in Death's face — before — and now. 

XIV. 

« My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, 
And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 

Life reassumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb ; till grown a pang 
Which for a moment would convulse, 
My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill; 

My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
My heart began once more to thrill ; 

My sight return'd, though dim, alas ! 

And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 

Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 

There was a gleam too of the sky, 

Studded with stars;— it is no dream ; 

The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 

The bright broad river's gushing tide 

Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 

And we are half-way struggling o'er 

To yon unknown and silent shore. 

The waters broke my hollow trance, 

And with a temporary strength, 
My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized, 

My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 

And dashes off the ascending waves, 

And onward we advance ! 

We reach the slippery shore at length, 
A haven I but little prized, 

For all behind was dark and drear, 

And all before was night and fear. 

How many hours of night or day 

In those suspended pangs I lay, 

I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 

If this were human breath I drew. 

XV. 

«With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night. 

And onward, onward, onward, seems 

Like precipices in our dreams, 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light, 
As rose the moon upon my right. 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste, would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like an hospitable star; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes: 

2 9 



226 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 

XVI. 

« Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness nought avail'd, 
My limbs were bound j my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolong'd their pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning grey 
Would never dapple into day; 
How heavily it roll'd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 

XVII. 

« Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before : 
What booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute. 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
No sign of travel — none of toil; 
The very air was mute; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst, 
The weary brute still stagger' d on: 
And still we were — or seem'd alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ■ I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry— my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 



And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod. 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment with a faint low neigh, 

He answer'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking limbs immoveable, 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong: 
They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there, 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide; 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct from a human eye. 

They left me there, to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
And there from morn till twilight bound, 
I felt the heavy hours toil round. 
With just enough of life to see 
My last of suns go down on me, 
In hopeless certainty of mind, 
That makes us feel at length resign'd 
To that which our foreboding years 
Presents the worst and last of fears 
Inevitable — even a boon, 
Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 
At times both wish'd for and implored, 
At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, aud calmer oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery : 
For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; 
And, save the future (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good, 
But as their nerves may be endued), 

With nought perhaps to grieve. 



MAZEPPA. 



227 



The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 

And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 

Appears to his distemper'd eyes 

Arrived to roh him of his prize, 

The tree of his new Paradise. 

To-morrow would have given him all, 

Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; 

To-morrow would have been the first 

Of days no more deplored or curst, 

But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 

Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 

Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 

To-morrow would have given him power 

To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 

And must it dawn upon his grave ? 

XVIII. 

« The suu was sinking — still 1 lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay; 
And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense, 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense, 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 

XIX. 

« I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance! 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Gould not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 



The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free : 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 

But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 
And then her hand on mine she laid, 
And smooth' d the pillow for my head, 
And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers— ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music folio w'd her light feet ! 

But those she call'd were not awake, 
And she went forth ; but ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say, 
That I had nought to fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call, 

And she would not delay 
Her due return; — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX. 

«She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 
Since I became the Cossacks' guest : 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne. — 

What mortal his own doom may guess I 

Let none despond, let none despair! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good night !» — The Hetman threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade. 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where: — 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep, 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



228 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



There are more things in heaven and earth, Horati 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 



Witch of the Alps. 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, etc. 



The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps 
—partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
Mountains. 



MANFRED. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 

manfred (alone). 
The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber— are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not: in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look -within : and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
I.ut grief should be the instructor of the wise: 
Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The tree of knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — 
But they avail not : I have done men good, 
And I have met with good even among men — 
Hut this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not: — good or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in otlier beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread. 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
Nor fluttering throb., that beats with hopes or wishes 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye. who do compass earth about, and dwell 



In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 

Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 

I call upon ye by the written charm 

Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! appear ! 

[A -pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Wlio is undying, rise! appear! — Appear! 

[A pause. 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air, 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish' d world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear! 

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gal- 
lery ; it is stationary ; and a voice is heard 
singing.] 

FIRST SPIRIT. 

Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer sun-set gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden; 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont-Blanc is the monarch of mountains. 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The avalanche in his hand; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst thou ? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 
Where the wave hath no strife. 



MANFRED. 229 


Where the wind is a stranger, 


FIRST SPIRIT. 


And the sea-snake hath life, 


Of what — of whom — and why ? 


Where the mermaid is decking 


MANFRED. 


Her green hair with shells ; 


Of that which is within me; read it there 


Like the storm on the surface 


— Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 


Came the sound of thy spells ; 


SPIRIT. 


O'er my calm hall of coral 


We can but give thee that which we possess ; 


The deep echo roll'd — 


Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 


To the Spirit of Ocean 


O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 


Thy wishes unfold ! 


Which shall control the elements, whereof 


FOURTH SPIRIT. 


We are the dominators — each and all, 


Where the slumhering earthquake 


These shall be thine. 


Lies pillow'd on fire, 


MANFRED. 


And the lakes of hitumen 


Oblivion, self-oblivion — 


Rise hoilingly higher ; 


Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 


Where the roots of the Andes 


Ye offer so profusely what I ask? 


Strike deep in the earth, 


SPIRIT. 


As their summits to heaven 


It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 


Shoot soaringly forth; 


But — thou mayst die. 


I have quitted my hirth-place 


MANFRED. 


Thy bidding to bide — 


Will death bestow it on me? 


Thy spell hath subdued me, 


SPIRIT. 


Thy will be my guide ! 


We are immortal, and do not forget; 


FIFTH SPIRIT. 


We are eternal, and to us the past 


I 'm the rider of the wind, 


Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? 


The stirrer of the storm ; 


MANFRED. 


The hurricane I left behind 


Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye here 


Is yet with lightniGg warm ; 


Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will! 


To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 


The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 


I swept upon the blast : 


The lightning of my being, is as bright, 


The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 


Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 


'T will sink ere night be past. 


And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay ! 


SIXTH SPIRIT. 


Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 


My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 


SPIRIT. 


Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 


We answer as we answer'd; our reply 


SEVENTH SPIRIT. 


Is even in thine own words. 


The star which rules thy destiny 


MANFRED. 


Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: 


Why say ye so ? 


It was a world as fresh and fair 


SPIRIT. 


As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 


If, as thou say st, thine essence be as ours, 


Its course was free and regular, 


We have replied in telling thee, the thing 


Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 


Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 


The hour arrived — and it became 


MANFRED. 


A wandering mass of shapeless flame. 


I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain; 


A pathless comet, and a curse, 


Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 


The menace of the universe ; 


SPIRIT. 


Still rolling on with innate force, 


Say; 
What we possess we offer; it is thine : 


Without a sphere, without a course, 


A bright deformity on high, 


Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 


The monster of the upper sky! 


Kingdom, and sway,and strength, and length of days 


And thou ! beneath its influence born — 


MANFRED. 


Thou, worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 


Accursed ! what have I to do with days? 
They are too Jong already. — Hence — begone! 


Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 


For this brief moment to descend, 

Where these weak spirits round thee bend, 


SPIRIT. 

Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee service; 

Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 

Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes? 


And parley with a thing like thee — 


What wouidst thou, child of clay, with me ? 




MANFRED. 


THE SEVEN SPIRITS. 


No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we part — 


Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 


I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 


Are at thy beck and bidding, child of clay ! 


Before thee, at thy quest, their spirits are — 


As music on the waters; and I see 


What wouidst thou with us, son of mortals — say? 


The steady aspect of a clear large star; 


MANFRED. 


But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 


Forgetfulness 


Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 



23o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SPIRIT. 

We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which -we are the mind and principle: 
But chuse a form — in that we will appear. 

MANFRED. 

I have no choice; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Gome! 

SEVENTH SPIRIT. 

(Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure). 
Behold! 

MANFRED. 

Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 

Art not a madness and a mockery, 

I yet might be most happy. — I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be [The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless. 

(A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 
When the moon is on the wave, 

And the glow-worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are still 
In the shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon thine, 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye t 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot; 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptised thee with a curse ; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice; 

And to thee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sky; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 
An essence which hath strength to kill ; 
From thy own heart I then did wring 
The black blood in its blackest spring ; 



From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 
For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
From thy own lip I drew the charm 
Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 
In proving every poison known, 
I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy; 

By the perfection of thine art, 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 



SCENE II. 



The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Morning. — 
Manfred alone upon the cliffs. 

MANFRED. 

The spirits I have raised abandon me — 

The spells which I have studied baffle me — 

The remedy I reck'd of tortured me; 

I lean no more on super-human aid, 

It hath no power upon the past, and for 

The future, till the past be gulf d in darkness, 

It is not of my search. — My mother earth! 

And thou, fresh breaking day, and you, ye mountains, 

Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 

And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 

That openest over all, and unto all 

Art a delight — thou shinest not on my heart. 

And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 

I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 

Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 

In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 

A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 

My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 

To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 

I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 

I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 

And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 

There is a power upon me which withholds 

And makes it my fatality to live ; 

If it be life to wear within myself 

This barrenness of spirit, and to be 

My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself — 

The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well mayst thou swoop so near me — I should be 



MANFRED. 



23 



Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone 

Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine 

Yet pierces downward, onward, or above 

With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 

How beautiful is all this visible world ! 

How glorious in its action and itself! 

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 

To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 

A conflict of its elements, and breathe 

The breath of degradation and of pride, 

Contending with low wants and lofty will 

Till our mortality predominates, 

And men are — what they name not to themselves, 

And trust not to each other. Hark! the note, 

[The shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Even so, 
This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here ? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance. — 
I will approach him nearer. 

manfred (not perceiving the other). 
To be thus— 

Grey-hair d with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years ; 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which t outlive !— Ye toppling crags of ice! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

MANFRED. 

The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 



CHAMOIS HUaTER. 

I must approach him cautiously; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

MANFRED. 

Mountains have fallen, 
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters, 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenburg — 
Why stood I not beneath it? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Friend! have a care, 
Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink? 

manfred (not hearing him). 
Such would have been for me a fitting tomb; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall be — 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens' 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth! take these atoms! 
[As Manfred is in act to spring from the cliff, 
the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains him, 
with a sudden grasp.] 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Hold, madman! — though aweary of thy life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood. — 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

MANFRED. 

I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not— 

I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me — I grow blind. — What art thou.' 

CHAMOIS HUN1ER. 

I 'II answer that anon. — Away with me — 

The clouds grow thicker — there — now lean on me — 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 

A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 

And hold fast by my girdle —softly — well — 

The chalet will be gain'd within an hour. 

Come on, we '11 quickly find a surer footing, 

And something like a pathway, which the torrent 

Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 't is bravely done — 

You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the 
scene closes.] 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 
Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go forth: 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither? 

MANFRED. 

It imports not : I do know 
My route full well, and need no further guidance. 



232 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks, 


Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage- 


Bocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 


One of the many chiefs, -whose castled crags 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 


Alas! he 's mad — but yet I must not leave him. 


May call thee lord? I only know their portals; 


MANFRED. 


My way of life leads me but rarely down 


I would I were — for then the things I see 


To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 


Would be but a distemper'd dream. 


Carousing with the vassals; but the paths, 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 


What is it 


I know from childhood — which of these is thine? 


That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 


MANFRED. 


MANFRED. 


No matter. 


Myself and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 


Well, sir, pardon me the question, 


And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 


And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 


Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 


'T is of an ancient vintage; many a day 


Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, 


'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 


By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes 


Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 


Of cheerful old age, and a quiet grave, 


MANFRED. 


With cross and garland over its green turf, 


Away, away ! there 's blood upon the brim ! 


And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph: 


Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 


This do I see — and then I look within — 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already! 


What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee. 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


MANFRED. 


And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine? 


I say 't is blood — my blood! the pure warm stream 


MANFRED. 


Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 


No, friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 


When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 


My lot with living being : I can bear — 


And loved each other as we should not love, 


However wretchedly, 't is still to bear — 


And this was shed: but still it rises up, 


In life what others could not brook to dream, 


Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 


But perish in their slumber. 


Where thou art not — and T shall never be. 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


And with this — 


Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin, 


This cautious feeling for another's pain, 


Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 


Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 


Thy dread and suffrance be, there 's comfort yet — 


Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 


The aid of holy men, and heaveuly patience 


Upon his enemies? 


MANFRED. 


MANFRED. 


Patience, and patience ! Hence — that word was made 


Oh! no, no, no ! 


For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; 


My injuries came down on those who loved me — 


Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — 


On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 


I am not of thine order. 


An enemy, save in my just defence — 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


But my embrace was fatal. 


Thanks to Heaven ! 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


I would not be of thine for the free fame 


Heaven give thee rest ! 


Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 


And penitence restore thee to thyself; 


It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 


My prayers shall be for thee. 


MANFRED. 


MANPRED. 


Do I not bear it? — Look on me— I live. 


I need them not, 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


But can endure thy pity. I depart — 


This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 


"F is time — farewell ! — Here 's gold, and thanks for thee. 


MANFRED. 


No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not— 


I tell thee, man! I have lived many years, 


I know my path — the mountain peril 's past: — 


Many long years, but they are nothing now 


And once again, I charge thee, follow not! 


To those which I must number ; ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 


[Exit Manfred. 




With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 


SCENE II. 


CHAMOIS HUNTER. 


A lower Valley in the Alps — A Cataract. 


Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 


Enter Manfred. 


Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 


It is not noon — the sunbow's rays « still arch 


MANFRED. 


The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 


Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? 


And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 


It doth: but actions are our epochs : mine 


O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 


Have made my days and nights imperishable, 


And fling its lines of foaming light along, 


Endless, and all alike as sands on the shore, 


And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 


Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 


The giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 


Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 


As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 



MANFRED. 



233 



Rut mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 

I should he sole in this sweet solitude, 

And with the spirit of the place divide 

The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of Hie water into the 
palm of his hand, andflings it in. the air, 
muttering the adjuration. After a pause, 
the Witch of the Alps rises beneath the 
arch of the sunbeam of the torrent. 

MANFRED. 

Beautiful spirit ! with thy hair of light, 

And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 

The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 

To an unearthly stature, in an essence 

Of purer elements; while the hues of youth, — 

Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 

Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 

Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 

Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 

The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 

Beautiful spirit! in thy calm clear brow, 

Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 

Which of itself shows immortality, 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a son 

Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 

At times to commune with them — if that he 

Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 

And gaze on thee a moment. 

WITCH. 

Son of earth ! 
I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me? 

MANFRED. 

To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

WITCH. 

What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible? 

MANFRED. 

A boon ; 
But why should I repeat it? 't were in vain. 

WITCH. 

I know not that; let thy lips utter it. 

MANFRED. 

Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same; 

My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 

My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 

Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes, 

The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 

The aim of their existence was not mine; 

My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 

Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, 

I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 

Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 



I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 

I held but slight communion : but instead, 

My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 

The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 

Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 

Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 

In these my early strength exulted; or 

To follow through the night the moving moon, 

The stars and their development; or catch 

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 

While autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived, 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and sculls, and heap'd-up dust, 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught, 

Save in the old time; and with time and toil, 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air, 

And spirits that do compass air and earth, 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros, 2 at Gadara, 

As I do thee;— and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

wiTcn. 
Proceed. 

MANFRED. 

Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being. 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

WITCH. 

Spare not thyself — proceed. 

MANFRED. 

She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 

Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 

Even of her voice, they said, were like to mine ; 

But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty: 

She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 

The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 

To comprehend the universe: nor these 

Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 

Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 

And tenderness— but that I had for her ; 

Humility — and that I never had. 

Her faults were mine — Her virtues were her own — 

I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 

WITCH. 

With thy hand ? 
3o 



234 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



MANFRED. 

Not with my hand, but heart— which broke her heart- 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers— and yet her blood was shed— 
I S aw — and could not staunch it. 

WITCH. 

And for this — 
A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
To recreant mortality Away! 

MANFRED. 

Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour — • 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Or watch my watchings— Gome and sit by me ! 
My solitude is solitude no more, 
But peopled with the Furies. — I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
Then cursed myself till sunset; — I have pray'd 
For madness as a blessing — 't is denied me. 
I have affronted death — but in the war 
Of elements the water shrunk from me, 
And fatal things passed harmless — the cold hand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In phantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Croesus in creation— I plunged deep, 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
I I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sought in all, save where 't is to be found, 
And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
My long-pursued and super-human art, 
Is mortal hare— I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live for ever. 

WITCH. 

It may be 
That I can aid thee. 

MANFRED. 

To do this thy power 
Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

WITCH. 

That is not in my province; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

MANFRED. 

I will not swear. — Obey ! and whom '. the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never! 

WITCH. 

Is this all ? 
Hast thou no gentler answer? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

MANFRED. 

I have said it. 

WITCH. 

Enough! — I may retire then — say! 

MANFRED. 

Betire! 
[The Witch disappears. 
manfred (alone). 
We are the fools of time and terror: days 



Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all tlie days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the clays of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be ; 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From tlie Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 5 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she! 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare: 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart ; 
But I can act even what I most abhor, 
And champion human fears. — The night approaches. 

[Exit. 



SCENE III. 

The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 
And here on snows, where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
And leave no traces; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
Frozen in a moment — the dead whirlpool's image: 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
The fret-work of some earthquake— where the clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — t is strange they come not. 
A voice without, singing. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 

Lay buried in torpor, 
Forgotten, and lone ; 



MANFRED. 



235 



I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain ; 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He 's tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he '11 answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction— his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me I 
First Destiny, answering. 
The city lies sleeping; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping: 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread, 

Envelop a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation. — 
This work of a night, 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I 've done, and shall still be renewing ! 
Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 
The Three. 
Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves; 
We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 
first destiny. 
Welcome ! — Where s Nemesis? 

SECOND DESTINY. 

At some great work; 
But what I know not, for my hands were full. 

THIRD DESTINY. 

Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Say, where hast thou been ? 
My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

NEMESIS. 

I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 

Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 

Avenging men upon their enemies, 

And making ihem repent their own revenge ;. 

Goading the wise to madness; from the dull 

Shaping out oracles to rule the world 

Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 

And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 

To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 

Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 

We have outstaid the hour — mount we our clouds ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his Throne, a 
Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 
Hail to our master! — Prince of earth and air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanos rise ; 

His shadow is the pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him war offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him death pays his tribute ; life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

first destiny. 
Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

SECOND DESTINY. 

Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 

The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 

THIRD DESTINY. 

Glory to Arimanes ! — we await his nod ! 

NEMESIS. 

Sovereign of sovereigns ! we are thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — thy late commands 
Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred, 
a spirit. 

What is here? 
A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

I do know the man — 
A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

Bow down and worship, slave ! — ■ 

What! know'st thou not 
Thine and our sovereign ?— Tremble, and obey ! 

ALL THE SPIRITS. 

Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

MANFRED. 

I know it ; 
And yet ye see I kneel not. 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

T will be taught thee. 

MANFRED. 

T is taught already; — many a night on the earth, 

On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 

And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 

The fulness of humiliation, for 

I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 

To my own desolation. 



236 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



FIFTH SPIRIT. 

Dost thou dare 
Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his glory — Crouch! I say. 

MANFRED. 

Bid him bow down to that which is above him, — 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

THE SPIRITS. 

Crush the worm ! 
Tear him in pieces ! — 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Hence! Avauut! he s mine. 
Prince of the powers invisible ! this man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote: his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
Nor breath, from the worm upwards, is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
No other spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

NEMESIS. 

What doth he here then ? 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Let him answer that. 

MANFRED. 

Ye know what I have known ; and without power 
I could not be amongst ye: but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such to answer unto what I seek. 

NEMESIS. 

What wouldst thou? 

MANFRED. 

Thou canst not reply to me. 
Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

NEMESIS. 

Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 

ARIMANES. 

Yea. 

rsEMESIS. 

Whom wouldst thou 



Uncharnel 



Astarte. 



MANFRED. 

One without a tomb — call up 

NEMESIS. 

Shadow ! or Spirit ! 
Whatever thou art, 



Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return'd to the earth, — 

Re-appear to the day! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 

And the aspect thou worest 

Redeem from the worm. 

Appear! — appear! — appear! 

Who sent thee there requires thee here! 

[The phantom of Astarte rises and 
stands in tlie midst. 

MANFRED. 

Can this be death? there 's bloom upon her cheek! 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

NEMESIS. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which inthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee! 

MANFRED. 

She is silent, 
And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

NEMESIS. 

My power extends no further. Prince of air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

ARIMANES. 

Spirit! obey this sceptre ! 

NEMESIS. 

Silent still! 
She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

MANFRED. 

Hear me, hear me — 
Astarte! my beloved ! speak to me: 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loathest me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly-echoed name, 
Which answer'd me— many things answer'd me — 



MANFRED. 



23' 



Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander' d o'er the earth 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me: 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once— 
This once — once more ! 

PHANTOM OF ASTARTE. 

Manfred ! 

MANFRED. 

Say on, say on — 
I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred ! to-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

PHANTOM. 

Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

Say, shall we meet again ? 

PHANTOM. 

Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

One word for mercy! say, thou lovest me. 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred ! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 

NEMESIS. 

She 's gone, and will not be recall'd; 
Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A SPIRIT. 

He is convulsed. — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

ANOTHER SPIRIT. 

Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

NEMESIS. 

Hast thou further question 
Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

MANFRED. 

None. 

NEMESIS. 

Then for a time farewell. 

MANFRED. 

We meet then ! Where? On the earth? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manfred. 
(Scene closes.) 



ACT III. 

SCENE L 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

MANFRED. 

What is the hour ? 

HERMAN. 

It wants but one till sunset, 
And promises a lovely twilight. 



Say, 
Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed? 

HERMAN. 

All, my lord, are ready; 
Here is the key and casket. 

MANFRED. 

It is well : 
Thou mayst retire. [Exit Herman. 

manfred (alone). 
There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought « Kalon,» found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once : 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there? 
Re-enter Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My lord, the abbot of St Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St Maurice, 
abbot. 
Peace be with Count Manfred! 

MANFRED. 

Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; 
Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

ABBOT. 

Would it were so, Count! 
But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

MANFRED. 

Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest? 

ABBOT. 

Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name; a noble name 
For centuries; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

MANFRED. 

Proceed, — I listen. 

ABBOT- 

T is said thou holdest converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rauely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

MANFRED. 

And what are they who do avouch these things ? 

ABBOT. 

My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 



238 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 

MANFRED. 

Take it. 

ABBOT. 

I come to save, and not destroy — 
I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things he sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to Heaven. 

MANFRED. 

I hear thee. This is my reply; whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not chuse a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have 1 sinn'd 
Against your ordinances? prove and punish! 

ABBOT. 

My son! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to Heaven — « Vengeance is mine alone !» 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

MANFRED. 

Old man! there is no power in holy men, 

Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 

Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 

Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 

The innate tortures of that deep despair 

Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 

But all in all sufficient to itself 

Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 

From out the uubounded spirit, the quick sense 

Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 

Upon itself; there is no future pang 

Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 

He deals on his own soul. 

ABBOT. 

All this is well ; 
For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned ; 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

MANFRED. 

When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have staunch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
« It is too late — is this fidelity?" 

ABBOT. 

And what of this? 



MANFRED. 

I answer with the Roman- 



It is too late!> 



ABBOT. 

It never can be so, 
To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope? 
'T is strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, 
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 

MANFRED. 

Ay — father! I have had those earthly visions 

And noble aspirations in my youth, 

To make my own the mind of other men, 

The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 

I knew not whither — it might be to fall; 

But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 

Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 

Even in the foaming strength of its abyss 

(Which casts up misty columns that become 

Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies), 

Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 

My thoughts mistook themselves. 

ABBOT. 

And wherefore so? 

MANFRED. 

I could not tame my nature down ; for he 

Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — and sue- 

And watch all time — and pry into all place — 

And be a living lie — who would become 

A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 

The mass are : I disdain'd to mingle with 

A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 

The lion is alone, and so am I. 

ABBOT. 

And why not live and act with other men ? 

MANFRED. 

Because my nature was averse from life; 
And yet not cruel; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

ABBOT. 

Alas! 
I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling; yet so young, 
I still would 

MANFRED. 

Look on me ! there is an order 
Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some insanity — 
And some of wither'd or of broken hearts-; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken; and of all these things, 
One were enough : then wonder not that I 



MANFRED. 



239 



Am -what I am, but that I ever was, 

Or, having been, that I am still on earth. 



Yet, hear me still 

MANFRED. 

Okl man ! I do respect 
Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfrei 

ABBOT. 

This should have been a noble creature: he 

Hath all the energy which would have made 

A goodly frame of glorious elements, 

Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 

It is an awful chaos— light and darkness— 

And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts 

Mix'd and contending without end or order, 

All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 

And yet he must not; I will try once more, 

For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 

Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 

I '11 follow him— but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. ; 



SCENE II. 

Another Chamber. 
Manfred and Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

MANFRED. 

Doth he so ? 
I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. 
Glorious orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons* 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons! Thou material god! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone: 
Hollow. [Exit Manfred, 



SCENE III. 

The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some dis- 
tance — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time, Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other dependants of Manfred. 

HERMAN. 

'T is strange enough ; night after night, for years, 

He hath pursued long ^gils in this tower, 

Without a witness. I have been within it, — 

So have we all been oft-times: but from it, 

Or its contents, it were impossible 

To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 

One chamber where none enter; I would give 

The fee of what I have to come these three years, 

To pore upon its mysteries. 

MANUEL. 

'T were dangerous ; 
Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

HERMAN. 

Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle- 
How many years is 't ? 

MANUEL. 

Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

HERMAN. 

There be more sons in like predicament : 
Cut wherein do they differ ? 

MANUEL. 

I speak not 
Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free,— 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a vvoif, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

HERMAN. 

Beshrew the hour, 
But those were jocund times! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

MANUEL. 

These walls 
Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

HERMAN. 

Come, be friendly; 
Relate me some, to while away our watch : 
I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

MANUEL. 

That was a night indeed; I do remember 
'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same : the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Maufred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And patchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, 



2^0 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
The lady Astarte, his — 

Hush ! who conies here? 
Enter the Abbot, 
abbot. 
Where is your master ? 

HERMAN. 

Yonder, in the tower. 

ABBOT. 

I must speak with him. 

MANUEL. 

'T is impossible ; 
He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

ABBOT. 

Upon myself I take 
The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

HERMAN. 

Thou hast seen him once 
This eve already. 

ABBOT. 

Herman ! I command thee, 
Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. 

HERMAN. 

We dare not. 

ABBOT. 

Then it seems 1 must be herald 
Of my own purpose. 

MANUEL. 

Reverend father, stop — 
I pray you pause. 

ABBOT. 

Why so ? 

MANUEL. 

But step this way, 
And I will tell you further. 



[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

Interior of the Tower. 

Manfred, alone. 

MANFRED. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 

Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 

I linger yet with Nature, for the night 

Hath been to me a more familiar face 

Than that of man,- and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness, 

I learn'd the language of another world. 

I do remember me, that in my youth, 

When I was wandering, — upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 

Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 

More near from out the Caesar's palace came 

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bow-shot— where the Caesars dwelt, 



And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 

But the gladiator's bloody circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 

As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries : 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old! 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'T was such a night ! 
'T is strange that I recal it at this time; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

My good lord ! 
I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
Recal a noble spirit which hath wander'd; 
But is not yet all lost. 

MANFRED. 

Thou know'st me not; 
My days are n umber 'd, and my deeds recorded ; 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away! 

abbot. 
Thou dost not mean to menace me? 

MANFRED. 

Not I; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

ABBOT. 

What dost mean ? 

MANFRED. 

Look there! 
What dost thou see? 

ABBOT. 

Nothing. 

MANFRED. 

Look there, I say, 
And steadfastly; — now tell me what thou seest? 

ABBOT. 

That which should shake me, — but I fear it not — 

I see a dusk and awful figure rise 

Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 

His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 

Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 

Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

MANFRED. 

Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 



MANFRED. 



241 



ABBOT. 


MANFRED. 


And I reply — 


Thou false fiend, thou liest ' 


Never — till I have battled with this fiend. 


My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 


What doth he here? 


Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; 


MANFRED. 


I do not combat against death, but thee 


Why — ay — what doth he here ? 


And thy surrounding angels : my past power 


I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 


Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 


ABBOT. 


Dut by superior science — penance — daring — 


Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these 


And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 


Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake. 


In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 


Why doth he gaze ou thee, and thou on him ? 


Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 


Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his brow 


And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 


The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye 


Upon my strength — I do defy — deny— 


Glares forth the immortality of hell — 


Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 


Avaimt! 


SPIRIT. 


MANFRED. 


But thy many crimes 


Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 


Have made thee 


SPIRIT. 


MANFRED. 


Come! 


What are they to such as thee? 


ABBOT. 


Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 


What art thou, unknown being? answer! — speak! 


And greater criminals? — Back to thy hell ! 


SPIRIT. 


Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 


The genius of this mortal. — Come! 't is time. 


Thou never shalt possess me, that! know : 


MANFRED. 


What I have done is done ; I bear within 


I am prepared for all things, but deny 


A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 


The power which summons me. Who sent thee here? 


The mind which is immortal makes itself 


SPIRIT. 


Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 


Thou It know anon — Come! come 1 


Is its own origin of ill and end — 


MANFRED. 


And its own place and time — its innate sense, 


I have commanded 


When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 


Things of an essence greater far than thine, 


No colour from the fleeting things without, 


And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence! 


But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 


SPIRIT. 


Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 


Mortal, thine hour is come — Away! I say. 


Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst no t tempt me ; 


MANFRED. 


I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 


I knew, and know my hour is come, but net 


But was my own destroyer, and will be 


To render up my soul to such as thee : 


My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 


Away ! I '11 die as I have lived — alone. 


The hand of death is on me — but not yours: 


SPIRIT. 


[Tlie Demons disappear. 


Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise! 

[Other Spirits rise up. 

ABBOT. 


ABBOT. 


Alas! how pale thou art— thy lips are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 


The accents rattle. — Give thy prayers to heaven — 


A vaunt! ye evil ones! — Avaunt! I say, — 


Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

MANFRED. 


Ye have no power where piety hath power, 


And I do charge ye in the name 


T is over — my dull eyes can fix thee not; 


SPIRIT. 


But all things swim around me, and the earth 


Old man! 


Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 


We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; 


Give me thy hand. 

ABBOT. 


Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 


It were in vain; this man is forfeited. 


Cold— cold — even to the heart : 


Once more I summon him — Away! away! 


But yet one prayer — alas ! how fares it with thee? — 


MANFRED. 


MANFRED. 


I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 


Old man! 't is not so difficult to die. 


Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 


[Manfred expires. 


Nor will I hence, while I have eartbJy breath 


ABBOT. 


To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 


He 's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight — 


To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 


Whither? I dread to think — but he is gone. 


Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

SPIRIT. 




NOTES. 


Reluctant mortal! 
Is this the Magian who would so pervade 






The world invisible, and make himself 


Note 1. Page 232, lines 124 and 12a. 


Almost our equal? — Can it be that thou 


— the stmbow's rays still arch 


Art thus in love with life ! the very life 


The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 


Which made thee wretched ! 


This Iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 

3i 



2L\1 



BYRON'S WOttKS. 



lower part of the Alpiae torrents : it is exactly like a 
rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close th&t 
you may walk into it : this effect lasts till noon. 

Note 2. Page 233, lines 99 and 100. 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. 
The philosopher lamblicus. The story of the raising 
of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life, by 
Eunapius. It is well told. 

Note 3. Page 234, lines 92 and 9 3. 

she replied 

In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta (who com- 
manded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and after- 



wards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacede- 
monians), and Gleonice, is told in Plutarch's life of 
Cimon; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the Sophist, 
in his description of Greece, 

Note 4. Page 23g, lines 3g and 40. 

the giant sons 

Of the embrace of angels. 

« That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, 
that they were fair,» etc. 

« There were giants in the earth in those days ; and 
also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto 
the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, 
the same became mighty men which were of old, men 
of renown. » — Genesis, ch. vi, verses 2 and 4- 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



PREFACE. 



The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of 
the most remarkable events in the annals of the most 
singular government, city, and people of modern his- 
tory. It occurred in the year i355. Every thing about 
Venice is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a 
dream, and her history is like a romance. The story 
of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and 
particularly detailed in the « Lives of the Doges, » by 
Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is 
simply and clearly related, and is, perhaps, more drama- 
tic in itself than any scenes which can be founded 
upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents 
and of courage. I find him commander in chief of 
the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the 
King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, 
killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged 
at the same time in check, an exploit to which I know 
none similar in history, except that of Caesar at Elesia, 
and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards 
commander of the fleet in the same war. He took 
Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome, 
at which last he received the news of his election to 
the dukedom ; his absence being a proof that he sought 
it by no intrigue, siuce he was apprized of his prede- 
cessor's death and his own succession at the same mo- 
ment. Cut he appears to have been of an ungovern- 
able temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, 
many years before, when podesta and captain at Tre- 
viso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat 
tardy in bringing the Host. For this honest Sanuto 
"saddles him with a judgment, » as Thwackum did 
Square; but he does not tell us whether he was pu- 
nished or rebuked by the senate for this outrage at the 
time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have 
been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find 
him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of 
Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the 
title of Count, by Lorenzo Count-Bishop of Ceneda. 
For these facts my authorities are, Sanuto, Vettor 



Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege 
of Zara, first published by the indefatigable vVbbate 
Morelli, in his «Monumenti Veneziani di varia lettera- 
tura,» printed in 1796, all of which I have looked over 
in the original language. The moderns, Daru, Sismondi, 
and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. 
Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his jealousy; but 
I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. 

Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that « Altri scrissero che 

dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel 
Steno) staccar con violenza,» etc. , etc.; but this ap- 
pears to have been by no means the general opinion, 
nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Navagero ; and 
Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that «per altre 
Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio 
di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura ma anche la innata 
abituale ambizion sua, per cui aneleva a farsi principe 
independente.» The first motive appears to have been 
excited by the gross affront of the words written by 
Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and 
inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who 
was one of their « tre capi.» The attentions of Steno 
himself appear to have been directed towards one of 
her damsels, and not to the « Dogaressa» herself, against 
whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while 
she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for her 
youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of 
Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was actuated by 
jealousy of his wife; but rather by respect for her, and 
for his own honour, warranted by his past services and 
present dignity. 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to 
in English, unless by Dr Moore in his View of Italy. 
His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests 
about old men and young wives, and wondering at so 
great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute 
and severe an observer of mankind as the author of 
Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew 
that a basin of water spilt on Mrs Masham's gown de- 
prived the Duke of Marlborough of his command, and 
led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht — that Louis XIV 
was plunged into the most desolating wars because 
his minister was nettled at his finding fault with a 



MARINO FALIERO. 



343 



window, and wished to give him another occupation — 
that Helen lost Troy — that Lucretia expelled the Tar- 
quins from Rome— and that Cava brought the Moors 
to Spain — that an insulted husband led the Gauls to 
Clusium, and thence to Rome — that a single verse of 
Frederic II of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a jest 
on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach 
—that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with MacMurchad 
conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland — that a 
personal pique between Marie Antoinette and the Duke 
of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion of the Bour- 
bons — and, not to multiply instances, that Commodus, 
Domitian, and Caligula fell victims, not to their public 
tyranny, but to private vengeance — and that an order 
to make Cromwell disembark from the ship in which 
he would have sailed to America, destroyed both king 
and commonwealth. After these instances, on the least 
reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr Moore to 
seem surprised that a man, used to command, who 
had served and swayed in the most important offices, 
should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished 
affront, the grossest that can be offered to a man, be 
he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little to the 
purpose, unless to favour it. 

u The young man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
But like red-hot steel is the ohl man's ire.' 
« Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical : — «Tale 
fu il fine ignominioso di un uomo, che la sua nascita, 
la sua eta,il suocarattere dovevano tenerlontano dalle 
passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per 
lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua 
capacita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, 
gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, 
ed avevano uniti i suffragi per collocarlo alia testa della 
repubblica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava glo- 
riosamente la sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria 
leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal veneno che bastb a 
corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a condurlo al ter- 
mine degli scellerati ; serio esempio, che prova non es- 
servi eta, in cui la prudenza umana sia sienra, e che 
nell' uomo restano senipve passioni capaci a disonorar- 
lo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso.v — Laugier, Ita- 
lian translation, vol. iv, pp. 3o, 3i. 

Where did Dr Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 
his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find 
nothing of the kind; it is true that he avowed all. 
He was conducted to the place of torture, but there 
is no mention made of any application for mercy on 
his part; and the very circumstance of their having 
taken him to the rack seems to argue any thing but 
his having shown a want of firmness, which would 
doubtless have been also mentioned by those minute 
historians, who by no means favour him : such, in- 
deed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, 
to the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as 
it is to the truth of history. I know no justification 
at any distance of time for calumniating an historical 
character: surely truth belongs to the dead and to the 
unfortunate, and they who have died upon a scaffold 
have generally had faults enough of their own, with- 
out attributing to them that which the very incurring 
of the perils which conducted them to their violent 
death renders, of all others, the most improbable. The 



black veil which is painted over the place of Marino 
Faliero amongst the doges, and the Giant's Staircase, 
where he was crowned, and discrowned, and decapi- 
tated, struck forcibly upon my imagination, as did his 
fiery character and strange story. I went in 1819, in 
search of his tomb, more than once, to the church of 
San Giovanni e San Paolo; and, as I was standing be- 
fore the monument of another family, a priest came 
up to me and said, « I can show you finer monuments 
than that.» I told him that I was in search of that of 
the Faliero family, and particularly of the Doge Ma- 
rino's. « Oh,» said he, «I will show it you;» and, con- 
ducting me to the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus 
in the wall, with an illegible inscription. He said that 
it had been in a convent adjoining, but was removed 
after the French came, and placed in its present situa- 
tion; that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal ; 
there were still some bones remaining, but no positive 
vestige of the decapitation. The equestrian statue of 
which I have made mention in the third act as before 
that church, is not, however, of a Faliero, but of some 
other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. 
There were two other Doges of this family prior to 
Marino : Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, in 1117 
(where his descendant afterwards conquered the Huns), 
and Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082, The family, 
originally from Fano, was of the most illustrious in 
blood and wealth in the city of once the most wealthy 
and still the most ancient families in Europe. The 
length I have gone into on this subject will show the 
interest I have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded 
or not in the tragedy, I have at least transferred into 
our language an historical fact worthy of commemo- 
ration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated this work, 
and, before I had sufficiently examined the records, I 
was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy 
in Faliero. But perceiving no foundation for this in 
historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted 
passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical 
form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew 
Lewis on that point, in talking with him of my inten- 
tion, at Venice, in 181 7. « If you make him jealous, » 
said he, « recollect that you have to contend with es- 
tablished writers, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and an 
exhausted subject; — stick to the old fiery Doge's na- 
tural character, which will bear you out, if properly 
drawn; and make your plot as regular as you can.» — 
Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the same 
counsel. How far I have followed these instructions, 
or whether they have availed me, is not for me to de- 
cide. I have had no view to the stage; in its present 
state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambi- 
tion ; besides, I have been too much behind the scenes 
to have thought it so at any time. And I cannot con- 
ceive any man of irritable feeling putting himself at 
the mercies of an audience : — the sneering reader, and 
the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and 
distant calamities; but the trampling of an intelligent 
or of an ignorant audience on a production which, be 
it good or bad, has been a mental labour to the writer, 
is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by 
a man's doubt of their competency to judge, and his 
certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his 
judges. Were I capable of writing a play which could 



2 44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no 
pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason 
that, even during the time of being one of the com- 
mittee of one of the theatres, I never made the attempt, 
and never will. 1 But surely there is dramatic power 
somewhere,— where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and 
John Wilson exist. The « City of the Plague» and the 
« Fall of Jerusalem" are full of the best materiel for 
tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, ex- 
cept passages of «Ethwald» and «De Montfort.» — It 
is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole, firstly, be- 
cause he was a nobleman, and secondly, because he was 
a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of 
his incomparable « Letters, » and of the « Castle of 
Otranto,» he is the « Ultimus Romanorum,» the author 
of the « Mysterious Mother,» a tragedy of the highest 
order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father of the 
first romance, and of the last tragedy in our language, 
and surely worthy of a higher place that any living 
writer, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot 
to mention that the desire of preserving, though still 
too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregu- 
larity, which is the reproach of the English theatrical 
compositions, permits, has induced me to represent the 
conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding 
to it, whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation 
and that of Israel Bertuccio. The other characters 
(except that of the duchess), incidents, and almost the 
time, which was wonderfully short for such a design in 
real life, are strictly historical, except that all the con- 
sultations took place in the palace. Had I followed 
this, the unity would have been better preserved; but 
I wished to produce the Doge in the full assembly of 
the conspirators, instead of monotonously placing him 
always in dialogue with the same individuals. For the 
real facts, I refer to the extracts given in the Appendix 
in Italian, with a translation. 

* While I was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane Theatre, I 
can vouch for my colleagues and I hope for myself, that we did our 
best to bring back the legitimate drama. I tried what I could to get 
k DeMontfort" revived, but in vain, and equally in vain in favour 
of Sotheby's u Ivan,n which was thought an acting play ; and I en- 
deavoured also to wake Mr Coleridge to write a tragedy. Those who 
are not in the secret will hardly believe that the « School for Scan- 
dal n is the play which has brought least money, averaging the num- 
ber of times it has been acted since its production; so Manager 
Dibdin assured me. Of what has occurred since Maturin's u Bertram," 
I am not aware ; so that I may be traducing, through ignorance, some 
excellent new writers ; if so, I beg their pardon. I have been absent 
from England nearly five years, and, till last year, I never read an 
English newspaper since my departure, and am now only aware of 
theatrical matters through the medium of the Parisian English Ga- 
zette of Galignani, and only for the last twelve months. Let me then 
deprecate all offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish well, 
and of whom I know nothing. The long complaints of the actual 
state of the drama arise, however, from no fault of the performers. 
I can conceive nothing better^than Kemble, Cooke, and Kean, in their 
very different manners, or than Elliston in gentleman's comedy, and 
in some parts of tragedy. Miss O'Neill, I never saw, having made 
and kept a determination to see nothing which should divide or dis- 
turb my recollection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble were the 
ideal of tragic action ; I never saw any thing at all resembling them, 
even in person : for this reason we shall never see again Coriolanus 
or Macbeth. When Kean is blamed for want of dignity, we should 
remember that it is a grace and not an art, and not to be attained by 
study. In all not superkaturai, parts he is perfect; even his very 
defects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, and ap- 
pear truer to nature. But of Kemble we may say, with reference to 
his acting, what the Cardinal de Retz said of the Marquis of Mont- 
rose, « that he was the only man he ever saw who reminded him of 
the heroes of Plutarch. » 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nepheiv of the Doge. 
Lioni, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, one of the three Capi of the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of the Arsenal. 
Philip Calendaro, \ 

Dagolino, ( Conspirators. 

Bertrand, ) 

!<.<.Signore di Notte,» one of the 
officers belonging to the 
Republic. 
First Citizen, 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 

VlNCENZO, \ 

Pietro, | Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 

Battista, ) 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 

Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, the Council of Ten, the 
Giunta, etc., etc. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 
Female Attendants, etc. 



Scene, Venice — in the year i355. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 

Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

pietro. 

Is not the messenger return'd? 

battista. 

Not yet; 
I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the signory is deep in council 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

PIETRO. 

Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

BATTISTA. 

How bears he 
These moments of suspense ? 

PIETRO. 

With struggling patience. 
Placed at the ducal table, cover' d o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
Dispatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty : but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



245 



EATTISTA. 


VINCENZO. 


'T is said he is much moved, and doubtless 't was 


No, my lord; you know 


Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 


The secret customs of the courts in Venice. 


PIETRO. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician, 


True ; but there still is something given to guess, 


Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 


Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at 


BATTISTA. 


A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 


Then you think 


More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 


He will not he judged hardly ? 


The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 


PIETRO. 


And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 


'T were enough 


And secret as the grave to which they doom 


lie he judged justly; but 'tis not for us 


The guilty; but with all this, in their aspects— 


To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 


At least in some, the juniors of the number — 


BATTISTA. 


A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 


And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo? 


Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 


Enter Vincenzo. 


VINCENZO. 


vincenzo. 


My lord, I came away upon the moment, 


Tis 


And had no leisure to take note of that 


Decided; but as yet his doom's unknown: 


Which pass'd among the judges, even in seeming ; 


I saw the president in act to seal 


My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 


The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 


Made me 


Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 


doge (abruptly). 


[Exeunt. 


And how look'd hel deliver that. 




VINCENZO. 


SCENE II. 


Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 


The Ducal Chamber. 


To the decree, whate'er it were; — but lo! 


Marino Faliero, Doge; and his nephew, Bertuccio 


It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 


Faliero. 


Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 


bertuccio faliero. 


SECRETARY. 


It cannot be but they will do you justice. 


The high tribunal of the Forty sends 


DOGE. 


Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 


Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 


Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 


Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 


His highness to peruse and to approve 


To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 


The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, born 


bertuccio faliero. 


Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 


His peers will scarce protect him; such an act 


Contain'd, together with its penalty, 


Would bring contempt on all authority. 


Within the rescript which I now present. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


Know you not Venice? know you not the Forty? 


Retire, and wait without. — Take thou this paper: 


But we shall see anon. 


[Exeunt Secretary And Vincenzo. 


Bertuccio Faliero (addressing Vincenzo, then 


The misty letters vanish from my eyes; 


entering). 


I cannot fix them. 


How now — what tidings? 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


VINCENZO. 


Patience, my dear uncle: 


I am charged to tell his highness that the court 


Why do you tremble thus? — nay, doubt not, all 


Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 


Will be as could be wish'd. 


As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 


DOGE. 


The sentence will be sent up to the doge : 


Say on. 


In the mean time the Forty doth salute 


bertuccio faliero (reading). 


The prince of the republic, and entreat 


« Decreed 


His acceptation of their duty. 


In council, without one dissenting voice, 


DOGE. 


That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 


Yes— 


Guilty on the last night of carnival 


They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 


Of having graven on the ducal throne 


Sentence is past, you say? 


The following words » 


VINCENZO. 


DOGE. 


It is, your highness: 


Wouldst thou repeat them? 


The president was sealing it, when I 


Wouldst thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 


Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 


Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 


In forwarding the intimation due, 


Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the prince 


Not only to the chief of the republic, 


Of Venice, first of cities? — To the sentence. 


But the complainant, both in one united. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 


Are you aware, from aught you have perceived, 


(Reads) <■< That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 


Of their decision? 


In close arrest." 



?.46 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



DOGE. 

Proceed. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

My lord, 't is finish 'd. 

DOGE. 

How, say you? — finish'd! Do I dream? — T is false — 
Give me the paper — {Snatches the paper, and reads), 

« 'T is decreed in council 
That Michel Steno » — Nephew, thine arm! 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Nay, 
Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for — 
Let me seek some assistance. 

DOGE. 

Stop, sir — stir not — 
'T is past. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence; 
It is not honourable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects: but 't is not 
Yet without remedy; you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle? why do you stand 
So fix'd? you heed me not: — I pray you, hear me ! 
doge (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is with- 
held by his nephew). 
Oh, that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

For the sake 
Of heaven and all its saints, my lord 

DOGE. 

Away ! 
Oh, that the Genoese were in the port! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

T is not well 
In Venice' Duke to say so. 

DOGE. 

Venice' Duke! 
Who now is Duke in Venice? let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

If you forget 
Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 

The Duke of Venice 

doge (interrupting him). 

There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word: 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless wretch, 
Who begs his bread, if 't is refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart; 
Cut he who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he 's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour; the meanest artizan 



Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : where is our redress ? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

The law, my prince — 

doge (interrupting him). 

You see what it has done: 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I cah'd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, 1 appeal'd unto my subjects, 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and service, 
Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting! 
And this is to be borne? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

I say not that: 
In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

DOGE. 

Appeal again! art thou my brother's son? 

A scion of the house of Faliero? 

The nephew of a doge? and of that blood 

Which hath already given three dukes to Venice I 

But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

My princely uncle! you are too much moved: 

I grant it was a gross offence; and grossly 

Left without fitting punishment; but still 

This fury doth exceed the provocation, 

Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 

We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 

We '11 take it; but may do all this in calmness — 

Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence. 

I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 

I love our house, I honour you, its chief, 

The guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 

But though I understand your grief, and enter 

In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 

To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 

O'erswcep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

DOGE. 

I tell thee — mustl tell thee — what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend, 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch? hast thou no soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

'T is the first time that honour has been doubted, 
And were the last, from any other sceptic. 

DOGE. 

You know the full offence of this born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous iibel, 
And on the honour of — Oh, God ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour; 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, 
And villauous jests, and blasphemies obscene; 
While sneering nobles, in more polish' d guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 



MARINO FALIERO. 






Which made me look like them — a courteous vittol, 
Palieut — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

But still it was a lie— you knew \i false, 
And so did all men. 

DOGE. 

Nephew, the high Roman 
Said « Caesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

True — but in those days 

DOGE. 

What is it that a Roman would not suffer, 

That a Yeuetian prince must bear ? Old Dandolo 

Refused the diadem of all the Cassars, 

And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 

Because 't is now degraded. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

'T is even so. 

DOGE. 

It is — it is : — I did not visit on 

The innocent creature, thus most vilely slander 'd, 

Because she took an old man for her lord, 

For tbat he had been long her father's friend 

Aud patron of her house, as if there were 

No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 

And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 

Visit the villain's infamy on her, 

But craved my country's justice on his head, 

The justice due unto the humblest being 

Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 

Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 

Who hath a name whose honour 's all to him, 

When these are tainted by the accursing breath 

Of calumny and scorn. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Aud what redress 
Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

DOGE. 

Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the state — 

Insulted on his very throne, and made 

A mockery to the men who should obey me? 

Was I not injured as a husband? scorn'd 

As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 

Was not offence like his a complication 

Of insult and of treason ? and he lives ! 

Had he, instead of on the Doge's throne, 

Stamp'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 

His blood had gilt the threshold, for the carle 

Had stabb'd him on the instant. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Do not doubt it : 
He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

DOGE. 

Hold, nephew ! this 
Would have sufficed but yesterday : at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

What mean you? is not the offence redoubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal, 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd? 

DOGE. 

It is redoubled, but not now bv him ; 



The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest— 
We must obey the Forty. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Obey tli em ! 
Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

DOGE. 

Why, yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at last : 

Whether as fellow-citizen avIio sues 

For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 

They have defrauded me of both my rights 

(For here the sovereign is a citizen) ; 

But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 

Of Steno's head— he shall not wear it long. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 

The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 

I never meant this miscreanl should escape, 

But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion, 

That we more surely might devise together 

His taking off. 

DOGE. 

No, nephew, he must live ; 
At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim : 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Your wishes are my law; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. 

DOGE. 

Fear not ; you shall have time and place of proof . 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Why, that 's my uncle ! 
The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
Ali prudence in your fury, at these years, 
Although the cause 

DOGE. 

Ay, think upon the cause — 
Forget it not : — when you he down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
So will it stand to me; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me , — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
T is fit I were alone. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

{Taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on the table.) 

Ere I depart, 
I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

DOGE (solus). 

Adieu, my worthy nephew. — Hollow bauble! 

[Taking up the ducal cap. 



248 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 

Without investing the insulted brow 

With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 

Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 

Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Pttts it on. 

How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 

Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 

Could I not turn thee to a diadem ? 

Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 

Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 

Making the people nothing, and the prince 

A pageant ? In my life I have achieved 

Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them 

Who thus repay me! — Can I not requite them ? 

Oh, for one year! Oh, but for even a day 

Of my full youth, while yet my body served 

My soul, as serves the generous steed his lord ! 

I would have dash'd amongst them, asking few 

In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians; 

But now I must look round for other hands 

To serve this hoary head ; but it shall plan 

In such a sort as will not leave the task 

Herculean, though as yet t is but a chaos 

Of darkly-brooding thoughts : my fancy is 

In her first work, more nearly to the light 

Holding the sleeping images of things, 

For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 

The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 
vincenzo. 

There is one without 
Craves audience of your highness. 

DOGE. 

I 'm unwell — 
I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

VINCENZO. 

My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 

It cannot much import — he 's a plebeian, 

The master of a galley, I believe. 

DOGE. 

How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit VlNGEMZO. 

DOGE (sollis). 

This patron may be sounded; I will try him. 

I know the people to be discontented ; 

They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 

When Genoa conquer'd : they have further cause, 

Since they are nothing in the state, and in 

The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 

To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 

The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 

And murmur deeply — any hope of change 

Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 

With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt the priesthood 

Will not be with us; they have hated me 

Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 

I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, ' 

Quickening his holy march : yet, ne'ertheless, 

They may be won, at least their chief at Bomc, 

By some well-timed concessions : but, above 

All things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 

Of twilight little light of life remains. 

Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 



I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 

Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 

Better that sixty of my fourscore years 

Had been already where — how soon, I care not— 

The whole must be extinguish' d ; — better that 

They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 

The thing these arch oppressors fain would make me. 

Let me consider — of efficient troops 

There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

vincenzo. 

May it please 
Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

DOGE. 

Leave the chamber, 
Vincenzo. — 

'[Exit Vincenzo. 
Sir, you may advance — what would you? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Redress. 

DOGE. 

Of whom? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Of God and of the Doge. 

DOGE. 

Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T were in vain ; 
For he who injured me is one of them. 

DOGE. 

There 's blood upon thy face — how came it there ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T is mine, and not the first I 've shed for Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

DOGE. 

Doth he live? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Not long- 
But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself: if not — 
I say no more. 

DOGE. 

But something you would do — 
Is it not so ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I am a man, my lord. 

DOGE. 

Why, so is he who smote you. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

He is call'd so ; 
Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one, 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn— 
'T is said the worm will. 

DOGE. 

Say his name and lineage ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 



Barbaro. 



DOGE. 

What was the cause, or the pretext i 



MARINO FALIERO. 



2 49 



ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I am the chief of the arsenal, ernploy'd 

At present in repairing certain galleys 

But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 

This morning comes the nohle Barbaro 

Full of reproof, because our artisans 

Had left some frivolous order of his house, 

To execute the state's decree : I dared 

To justify the men — he raised his hand ;— 

Behold my blood! the first time it e'er flow d 

Dishonourably. 

DOGE. 

Have you long time served ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

So long as to remember Zara's siege, 

And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 

Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. 

DOGE. 

How ! are we comrades ? — the state's ducal robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognized you not. Who placed you ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

The late Doge ; keeping still my old command 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as the reward of certain scars 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say) : 
I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff, 
At least, in such a cause. 

DOGE. 

Are you much hurt ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

DOGE. 

Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

That which I dare not name, and vet will do. 

DOGE. 

Then wherefore came you here I 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I come for justice, 
Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fill'd the ducal throne, 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

DOGE. 

You come to me for justice — unto me! 
The Doge of Venice, and T cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 't was denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

How says your highness ? 

DOGE. 

Steno is condemn'd 
To a month's confinement, 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

What ! the same who dared 
To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to even- ear in Venice ? 

DOGE. 

Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 

creaking oar, 



Or making chorus to th 



In the vile tune of every galley slave, 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not' a shamed dotard, like the Doge. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Is it possible ? a month's imprisonment ! 
No more for Steno? 

DOGE. 

You have heard the offence. 
And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me.' Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno 5 
They '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 

DOGE. 

Give them breath : 
Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

DOGE. 

You over-rate my power, which is a pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Wouldst thou be king? 

DOGE. 

Yes — of a happy people. 

ISRAEL P.ERTUCCIO. 

Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice? 

DOGE. 

Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Yet, thou wast born and still hast lived patrician. 

DOGE. 

In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. 
I have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and conquer' d 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constaut duty, 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My father's and my birth-place, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more : but not for any knot of men. 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom? Had the bird a voice, 
She 'd tell thee 't was for all her little ones- 

02 



25o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

And yet they made thee duke. 

DOGE. 

They made me so ; 
I sought it not : the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
At these late years, decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You shall do both, if you possess the will, 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd, 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 

DOGE. 

You speak in riddles. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Which shall soon be read, 
At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

DOGE. 

Say on. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Not thou, 
Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on, but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs : 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears; 
The native mariners and civic troops 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution, 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintaiu'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further: 
Even now — but I forget that, speaking thus, 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 

DOGE. 

And, suffering what thou hast done, fear'st thou death? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

No, I will speak 
At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
Than I. 

DOGE. 

From me fear nothing ; out with it. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Know, then, that there are met and sworn in secret 

A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 

Men who have proved all fortunes, and have Jong 

Grieved over that of Yenice, and have right 

To do so ; having served her in all climes, 

And having rescued her from foreign foes, 

Would do the same from those within her walls. 

They are not numerous, nor yet too few 

For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 

And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 



DOGE. 

For what then do they pause ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

An hour to strike. 

doge {aside). 
Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I now have placed 
My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 

DOGE. 

How many are ye 1 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I 11 not answer that 
Till I am answer'd. 

DOGE. 

How, Sir ! do you menace ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

No ; I affirm. I have betray d myself ; 

But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 

Which undermine your palace, nor in those 

Not less appalling cells, « the leaden roofs,» 

To force a single name from me of others. 

The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ,• 

They might wring blood from me, but treachery never, 

And I would pass the fearful « Bridge of Sighs, » 

Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 

Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 

Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 

The prison and the palace walls : there are 

Those who would live to think on 't and avenge me. 

DOGE. 

If such your power and purpose, why come here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Because the man 
Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

DOGE. 

What was that ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Some rumours that the Doge was greatly moved 

By the reference of the Avo{]adori 

Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 

Had reach' d me. I had served you, honour'd you, 

And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 

Being of an order of such spirits as 

Bequite tenfold both good and evil : 't was 

My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 

Now you know all ; and that I speak the truth, 

My peril be the proof. 







MARINO 


FALIERO. 25i 


DOGE. 


Near to the church where sleep my sires : the same, 


You have deeply ventured ; 


Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 


But all must do so who would greatly wiu : 


A gondola, 2 with one oar only, will 


Thus far I '11 answer you — your secret's safe. 


Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Be there. 


And is this all ? 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


DOGE. 


I will not fail. 


Unless with all entrusted, 


DOGE. 


What would you have me answer ? 


And now retire 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


I would have you 


In the full hope your highness will not falter 


Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 


In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 


DOGE. 


[Exit Israel Bertuccio. 


But I must know your plan, your names, and numbers ; 


doge (solus). 


The last may then be doubled, and the former 


At midnight, by the church Saints John and Paul, 


Matured and strengthen'd. 


Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


To what ? to hold a council in the dark 


We 're enough already; 


With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 


You are the sole ally we covet now. 


And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 


DOGE. 


Where lie two doges who preceded me, 


But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs. 


And pluck me down amongst them? Would they could! 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


For I should rest in honour with the honour'd. 


That shall be done upon your formal pledge 


Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 


To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 


Who have made me thus unworthy of a name, 


DOGE. 


Noble and brave as aught of consular 


When? where? 


On Roman marbles : but I will redeem it 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 


This night I '11 bring to your apartment 


By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 


Two of the principals ; a greater number 


And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 


Were hazardous. 


To all the growing calumnies of time, 


DOGE. 


Which never spare the fame of him who fails. 


Stay, I must think of this. 


But try the Caesar or the Cataline, 


What if I were to trust myself amongst you, 


By the true touchstone of desert — success. 


And leave the palace ? 






ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


ACT II. 


You must come alone. 




DOGE. 


SCENE I. 


With but my nephew. 


An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Not were he your sou. 


Angiolina (wife of tlie Doge) and jMarianna. 


DOGE. 


A.NGIOLINA. 


Wretch ! darest thou name my son? He died in arms, 


What was the Doge's answer? 


At Sapienza, for this faithless state. 


MARIANNA. 


Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 


That he was 


Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 


That moment summon'd to a conference ; 


I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 


But 't is by this time ended. I perceived 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Not long ago the senators embarking ; 


Not one of all those strangers whom thou doubtest, 


And the last gondola may now be seen 


But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 


Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 


So that thou keepst a father's faith with them. 


The glittering waters. 


DOGE. 


ANGIOLINA. 


The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting ? 


Would he were return'd! 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


He has been much disquieted of late ; 


At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 


And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 


Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 


Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 


To wait your coming, and conduct you where 


Which seems to be more nourish'd by a soul 


You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 


So quick and restless that it would consume 


Upon our project. 


Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 


DOGE. 


On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 


At what hour arises 


To other spirits of his order, who, 


The moon? 


In the first burst of passion, pour away 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 


Late ; but the atmosphere is thick and dusky ; 


An aspect of eternity : his thoughts, 


'T is a sirocco. 


His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 


DOGE. 


Have nothing of old age : and his bold brow 


At the midnight hour, then. 


Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 



-5 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
Would he were come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

MARIANNA. 

It is true, 
His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause ; 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

ANGIOLINA. 

T was a gross insult ; but I heed it not, 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me : I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

MARIANNA. 

Assuredly 
The Doge can not suspect you ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Suspect me ! 
Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie, 
Groveling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 
His own still conscience smote him for the act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

MARIANNA. 

'T were fit 
He should be punish'd grievously. 

ANGIOLINA. 

He is so. 

MARIANNA. 

What ! is the sentence past ? is he condemn'd ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I know not that, but he has been detected. 

MARIANNA. 

And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno , 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

MARIANNA. 

Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words 1 
The dying Roman said, « 't was but a name : » 
It were indeed no more, if human breath- 
Could make or mar it. 

MARIANNA. 

Yet full many a dame, 
Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

This but proves it is the name 



And not the quality they prize: the first 

Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, 

If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 

And those who have not kept it seek its seeming, 

As they would look out for an ornament 

Of which they feel the want, but not because 

They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 

And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 

MARIANNA. 

You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And yet they were my father's : with his name, 
The sole inheritance he left. 

MARIANNA. 

You want none ; 
Wife to a prince, the chief of the republic. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I should have sought none, though a peasant's bride, 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 

MARIANNA. 

And with that hand did he bestow your heart ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

MARIANNA. 

Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
Might make the world doubt whether such an union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

ANGIOLINA. 

The world will think with worldlings : but my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

MARIANNA. 

And do you love him ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I love all noble qualities which merit 

Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 

To single out what we should love in others, 

And to subdue all tendency to lend 

The best and purest feelings of our nature 

To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 

Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 

Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 

Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 

Such have I found him as my father said. 

His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 

Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 

And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 

The uses of patricians, and a life 

Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 

From the quick sense of honour, which becomes 

A duty to a certain sign, a vice 

When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 

And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 

Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness; 

Tn such sort, that the wariest of republics 

Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him, 

From his first fight to his last embassy, 

From which on his return the dukedom met him. 

MARIANNA. 

But, previous to this marriage, had your heart 

Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 

Such as in years had been more meet to match 



MARINO FALIERO. 



a53 



Beauty like yours? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I answer' d your first question when I said 
I married. 

MARIANNA. 

And the second ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Needs no answer. 

MARIANNA. 

I pray you pardon, if I have offended. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might chuse, 
Or aught, save their past choice. 

MARIANNA. 

'T is their past choice 
That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now chuse more wisely, could they cancel it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

MARIANNA. 

Here comes the Doge — shall I retire? 

ANGIOLINA. 

It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapt 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way! 

[Exit Marianna. 
Enter the Doge and Pietro. 
doge (musing). 
There is a certain Philip Calenclaro 
Now in the arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades ; 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret : 'twould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be 

PIETRO. 

My lord, pray pardon me 
For breaking in upon your meditation; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

DOGE. 

At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 

Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My lord ! 

DOGE. 

My dearest child, forgive me— why delay 
So long approaching me? — I saw you not. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

DOGE. 

From the senate? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

DOGE. 

The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
T is we who owe all service to the senate. 



ANGIOLINA. 

I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. 

DOGE. 

He shall.— But let that pass. — We will be jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke? or aught 
Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares? 
Speak, and 'tis done. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You 're ever kind to me — 
I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

DOGE. 

Calmer ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As, not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

DOGE. 

Disclose too much! — of what? 
What is there to disclose ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

A heart so ill 
At ease. 

DOGE. 

'T is nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
And malcontents within — 't is this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yet this existed long before, and never 

Till in these late days did I see you thus. 

Forgive me : there is something at your heart 

More than the mere discharge of public duties, 

Which long use and a talent like to yours 

Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 

To keep your mind from stagnating. 'T is not 

In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you; 

You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 

And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power, 

And never fainted by the way, and stand 

Upon it, and can look down steadily 

Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 

Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 

Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 

You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 

As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow : 

Your feelings now are of a different kind; 

Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

DOGE. 

Pride ! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
And of all sins most easily besets 



254 



BYRON'S WORKS. 






Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature: 
The vile are only vain; the great are proud. 

DOGE. 

I had the pride of honour, of your honour, 
Deep at my heart— But let us change the theme. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress: were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry, detected, 
Unfix' d your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would soothe you back to what you were. 

DOGE. 

To what I was! — Have you heard Steno's sentence? 

ANGIOLINA. 

No. 

DOGE. 

A month's arrest. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Is it not enough? 

DOGE. 

Enough! — Yes, for a drunken galley-slave, 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour, 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

ANGIOLINA. 

There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honour. 

DOGE. 

Such men have no honour ; 
They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You would not have him die for this offence ? 

DOGE. 

Not now : — being still alive, I 'd have him live 
Long as lie can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Oh! had this false and flippant libeller 

Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 

Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 

A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

DOGE. 

Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood? 

And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 

Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 

That makes such deadly to the sense of man ? 

Do not the laws of man say blood for honour? 

And, less than honour, for a little gold? 

Say not the laws of nations blood for treason? 

!s 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 

For their once healthful current? is it nothing 

To have stain'd your name and mine ? the noblest names; 

Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 

A prince before his people? to have fail'd 

In the respect accorded by mankind 

To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 

To virtue in your sex, and dignity 



In ours? — But let them look to it who have saved him. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

DOGE. 

Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Do not speak thus wildly— 
Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

DOGE. 

Amen ! May Heaven forgive them. 

ANGIOLINA. 



And wil 



youi 



DOGE. 

Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

And not till then? 

DOGE. 

What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 

Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters then 

My pardon more than my resentment? both 

Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. 

But let us change the argument. — My child ! 

My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 

The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 

Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 

That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas ! 

Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 

But had a different husband, any husband 

In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 

This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 

So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 

To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honour me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command? 

DOGE. 

'T is well, 
And may be better; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why speak you thus? 

DOGE. 

It is no matter why ; 
But I would still, whatever others think, 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why should you doubt it? has it ever fail'd? 

DOGE. 

Come hither, child ; I would a word with you. 

Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 

Made him my debtor for some courtesies, 

Which bind the good more firmly : when opprest 

With his last malady, he will'd our union : 

It was not to repay me, long repaid 

Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 

His object was to place your orphan beauty 

In honourable safety from the perils 

Which in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 

A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 

Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 

Which soothed his death-bed. 

ANGIOLINA. 

1 have not forgotten 
The nobleness with which you bade me speak, 



MARINO 


FALIERO. 255 


If my young heart held any preference 


And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 


Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 


Such estimation in your eyes as these 


To make my dowry equal to the rank 


Might claim, I hoped for. 


Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 


ANGIOLINA. 


My father's last injunction gave you. 


And have ever had. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


Thus, 


I think so. For the difference in our years, 


'T -was not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 


You knew it, chusing me, and chose : I trusted 


Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 


Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 


Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 


In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, 


And a young bride ; for in my fieriest youth 


Were I still in my five-and-twentielh spring : 


I sway'd such passions; nor was this my age, 


I trusted to the blood of Loredano, 


Infected with that leprosy of Just 


Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 


Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 


God gave you — to the truths your father taught you — 


Making them ransack to the very last 


To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 


The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 


To your own faith and honour, for my own. 


Or buy in selfish marriage some youug victim, 


ANGIOLINA. 


Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 


You have done well — I thank you for that trust, 


Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 


Which I have never for one moment ceased 


Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 


To honour you the more for. 


Freedom from me to chuse, and urged in answer 


DOGE. 


Your father's choice. 


Where is honour, 


ANGI0L1NA. 


Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 


I did so ; I would do so 


Of faith connubial ; where it is not — where 


In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 


Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 


Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 


Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 


In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 


Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 


DOGE. 


'T were hopeless for humanity to dream 


I knew my heart would never treat you harshly; 


Of honesty in such infected blood, 


I knew my days could not disturb you long ; 


Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 


And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 


An incarnation of the poet's god 


His worthy daughter, free to chuse again 


In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 


Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 


The demi-deity, Alcides, in 


Of womanhood, more skilful to select 


His majesty of superhuman manhood, 


By passing these probationary years ; 


Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not. 


Inheriting a prince's name and riches; 


It is consistency which forms and proves it : 


Secured, by the short penance of enduring 


Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 


An old man for some summers, against all 


The once fallen woman must for ever fall, 


That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 


For vice must have variety ; while virtue 


Have urged against her right : my best friend's child 


Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 


Would chuse more fitly in respect of years, 


Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 


And not less truly in a faithful heart. 


ANGIOLINA. 


ANGIOLINA. 


And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others 


My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 


(I pray you pardon me), but wherefore yield you 


Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 


To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 


For doing all its duties, and replying 


Disquiet your great thoughts, with restless hate 


With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 


Of such a thing as Steno? 


Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and, should 


DOGE. 


The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 


You mistake me. 


DOGE. 


It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 


I do believe you ; and I know you true : 


Had it been so, he should — but let that pass. 


For love, romantic love, which in my youth 


ANGIOLINA. 


I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 


What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even now? 


Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 


DOGE. 


No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 


The violated majesty of Venice, 


And could not be so now, did such exist. 


At once insulted in her lord and laws. 


But such respect, and mildly paid regard 


ANGIOLINA. 


As a true feeling for your welfare, and 


Alas ! why will you thus consider it? 


A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 


DOGE. 


A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 


I have thought on't till— but let me lead you back 


Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 


To what I urged: all these things being noted, 


As youth is apt in ; so as not to check 


I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 


Bashly, but win you from them ere you knew 


Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 


You had been won, but thought the change your choice; 


They did me right, while yours was all to praise: 


A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct. — 


You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 


A trust in you — a patriarchal love. 


From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 



256 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to he our first of native dames. 

angiolina. 
To what does this conduct? 

DOGE. 

To thus much — that 
A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain whom, for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honour, pass 
Into a by-word, and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels, 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion, 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort. 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

ANGIOLINA. 

But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

DOGE. 

For such as him a dungeon were acquittal; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I've done with him; 
The rest must be with you. 

ANGIOLINA. 

With me, my lord? 

DOGE. 

Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 

Have let this prey upon me till I feel 

My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 

Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll. (Giving her a paper) Fear not; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter, at the fitting hour. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honour'd still by me : but may your days 
De many yet — and happier than the present ! 
This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 

DOGE. 

I will be what I should be, or be nothing; 

But never more — oh ! never, never more, 

O'er the few days or hours which yet await 

The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 

Sweet quiet shed her sunset! Never more 

Those summer shadows rising from the past 

Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 

Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 

Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 

I had but little more to ask, or hope, 

Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 

And the soul'slabour through which I had toil'd 

To make my country honour'd. As her servant — 

Her servant, though her chief — I woidd have gone 

Down to my fathers with a name serene 

And pure as theirs : but this has been denied me. — 

Would I had died at Zara ! 

ANGIOLIXA, 

There you saved 



The state; then live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Pieproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

DOGE. 

But one such day occurs within an age ; 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet; 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Remember what you were. 

DOGE. 

It were in vain ; 
Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
While sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

ANGIOLINA. 

At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 

That you will take some little pause of rest : 

Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 

That it had been relief to have awaked you, 

Had I not hoped that nature would o'erpower 

At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 

An hour of rest will give you to your toils 

With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

DOGE. 

I cannot — 
I must not, if I could; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well— but where?— no matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Let me be 
An instant — yet an instant your companion; 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

DOGE. 

Come then, 
My gentle child — forgive me; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share iu mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I ivas 
Be still, sometimes, a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember.— 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

A retired spot near the Arsenal. 

Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 

CALENDARO. 

How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint 1 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Why, well. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



2 5 7 



CALENDARO. 

Is 't possible? wiil he be punish'd ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 



Yes. 



CALENDARO. 

With what ! a mulct or an arrest? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

With death !— 

CALENDARO. 

Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 

Such as I counsell'd you, -with your own hand. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Yes; and for one sole draught of hate, forego 

The great redress we meditate for Venice, 

And change a life of hope for one of exile; 

Leaving one scorpion crushd, and thousands stinging 

My friends, my family, my countrymen! 

No, Calendaro; these same drops of blood, 

Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital— but not only his; 

We will not otrike for private wrongs alone : 

Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 

But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

CALENDARO. 

You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Thank Heaven you were not — all had else been marr'd 
As 't is, our cause looks prosperous still. 

CALENDARO. 

You saw 
The Doge — what answer gave he? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

That there was 
No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

CALENDARO. 

I told you so before, and that 't was idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

• * ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

At least, 
It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

CALENDARO. 

But wherefore not address you to the Council 1 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You shall know that hereafter. 

CALENDARO. 

Why not now ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, 
And bid your friends prepare their companies :— 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a few hours; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may bo, of to-morrow's sun: delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 



CALENDARO. 

These brave words have breathed new life 
Into my veins; I 'm sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils: day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another Jink 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedom! 
I 'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty ? 

CALENDARO. 

All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

No matter; we can do without. Whose are they? 

CALENDARO. 

Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
Who are not restless, cold: but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 

CALENDARO. 

I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 

There is a hesitating softness, fatal 

To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 

Weep like an infant o'er the misery 

Of others, heedless of his own, though greater; 

And, in a recent quarrel, I beheld him 

Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 

And feel for what their duty bids them do. 

I have known Bertram long; there doth not breathe 

A soul more full of honour. 

CALENDARO. 

It may be so, 
I apprehend less treachery than weakness; 
Yet, as he has no mistress, and no wife 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal. It is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us: 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Such ties are not 
For those who are called to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths; 
We must forget all feelings save the one — 
We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
We must behold no object save our country — 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaveD, 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

CALENDARO. 

But if we fail? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

They never fail who die 
In a great cause : the block may soak their gore: 

33'. 



a58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs 

Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 

Hut still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 

Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 

Which overpower all others, and conduct 

The world at last to freedom. What were we, 

If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 

Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 

A name which is a virtue, and a soul 

Which multiplies itself throughout all time, 

When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 

Turns servile: he and his high friend v/ere styled 

»< The last of Romans !» Let us be the first 

Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

CALENDARO. 

Our fathers did not fly from Attila 

Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 

On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 

To own a thousand despots in his place. 

Better bow down before the Hun, and call 

A Tartar lord, than these swoln silk-worms masters ! 

The first at least was man, and used his sword 

As sceptre ; these unmanly creeping things 

Command our swords, and rule us with a word 

As with a spell. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

It shall be broken soon. 
You say that all things are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowest; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care: these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair colour to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment, 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms ? 

CALENDARO. 

All who were deem'd trustworthy: there are some 

Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 

Till it be time to strike, and then supply them; 

When in the heat and hurry of the hour 

They have no opportunity to pause, 

But needs must on with those who will surround them. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You have said well. — Have you remark'd all such? 

CALENDARO. 

I ve noted most, and caused the other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
Commenced to-morrow ; but till 't is begun, 
■Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, 
Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 

CALENDARO. 

We will not fail. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Let all the rest be there : 
I have a stranger to present to them ; 



CALENDARO. 

A stranger! doth he know the secret? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 



Yes. 



CALENDARO. 

And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid : and, if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power: he comes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 

CALENDARO. 

I cannot judge of this until I know him: 
Is he one of our order? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Ay, in spirit, 
Although a child of greatness: he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes; 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny; 
Valiant in war, and sage in council; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
Yet, for all this, so full of certain passions, 
That if once stirr'd and baffled, as he has been 
Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
In Grecian story, like to that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all things for revenge; 
And add too, that his mind is liberal : 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 
We've need of such, and such have need of us. 

CALENDARO. 

And what part would you have him take with us? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

It may be that of chief. 

CALENDARO. 

What ! and resign 
Your own command as leader? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Even so. 
My object is to make your cause end well, 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
And, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge. — 
Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

CALENDARO. 

Worthy Bertuccio ! I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with You, as I have ever been, 



MARINO FALIERO. 



25 9 



In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. 



[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

Scene, the Space between the Canal and the Church of 
San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian Statue 
before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal at some dis- 
tance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 

DOGE (solus). 

I am before the hour, the hour whose voice, 

Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 

These palaces with ominous tottering, 

And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 

Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 

Of indistinct but awful augury 

Of that which will befal them. Yes, proud city! 

Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 

thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny: the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not, 
And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on, 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fane ! 
Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes, 
When what is now a handful shook the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house! 
Vault where two Doges rest — my sires! who died 
The one of toil, the other in the field, 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state 
I have inherited, — let the graves gape, 
Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 
I call them up, and them and thee to witness 
What it hath been which put me to this task — 
Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 
Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 
Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
We fought to make our equals, not our lords: — 
And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 
Who perish'd in the field where I since conquer'd, 
Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
Of thine and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 
By tliy descendant, merit such acquittance? 
Spirits ! smile down upon me, for my cause 
Is yours, in all life now can be of yours — 
Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
And in the future fortunes of our race! 
Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
Free and immortal, and our house's name 
Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter! 

Enter Israel bertuccio. 



ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 



Who goes there ? 



DOGE. 

A friend to Venice. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

T is he. 
Welcome, my lord,— you are before the time. 

DOGE. 

I 'm ready to proceed to your assembly. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Have with you. — I am proud and pleased to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd 1 

DOGE. 

Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of life upon this cast: the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not! 
That is the word; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice: now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

DOGE. 

We! — We! — no matter — you have earn'd the right 

To talk of us. — But to the point. — If this 

Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 

And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 

Conducts her generations to our tombs, 

And makes her children with their little hands 

Strew flowers o'er their deliverers' ashes, then 

The consequence will sanctify the deed, 

And we shall be like the two Bruti in 

The annals of hereafter; but if not, 

If we should fail, employing bloody means 

And secret plot, although to a good end, 

Still we are traitors, honest Israel; — thou 

No less than he who was thy sovereign 

Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T is not the moment to consider thus, 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

DOGE. 

We are observed, and have been. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We observed! 
Let me discover — and this steel — 

DOGE. 

Put up ; 
Here are no human witnesses ; — look there — 
What see you? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Only a tall warrior's statue 
Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

DOGE. 

That warrior was the sire 
Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city: — 
Think you that he looks down on us, or no ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

My lord, these are mere phantasies ; there are 
No eyes in marble. 



260 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



DOGE. 

But there are in death. 
I tell thee, man, there is a spirit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'T is in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

It had been as well 
To have ponder'd this before,— ere you embark'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent? 

DOGE. 

No — but I feel, and shall do to the last. 

I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 

Nor dwindle to the tiling I now must be, 

And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause: 

Yet doubt me not; it is this very feeling, 

And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 

Which is your best security. There 's not 

A roused mechanic in your busy plot 

So wrong'd as I, so fallen, so loudly call'd 

To his redress: the very means I 'm forced 

By these fell tyrants to adopt is such, 

That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 

Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Let us away! — hark! the hour strikes. 

DQGE. 

On — on — 
It is our knell, or that of Venice. — On. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Say, rather, 't is her freedom's rising peal 

Of triumph. — This way — we are near the place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

Tlte Hoiise where the Conspirators meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano, Calen- 

daro, Antonio delle Bende, etc., etc. 

calendaro (entering). 
Are all here ? 

dagolino. 
All with you: except the three 
On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

CALENDARO. 

Where's Bertram? 

BERTRAM. 

Here! 

CALENDARO. 

Have you not been able to complete 
The number wanting in your company? 

BERTRAM. 

I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

CALENDARO. 

There is no need 
Of trusting to their faith : who, save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent? they think themselves 3 
Engaged in secret to the Signory, 



To punish some more dissolute young nobles 

Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 

But once drawn up, and their new swords well flesh'd 

In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 

They will not hesitate to follow up 

Their blow upon the others, when they see 

The example of their chiefs ; and I for one 

Will set them such, that they for very shame 

And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 

BERTRAM. 

How say you, alii 

CALENDARO. 

Whom wouldst thou spare? 

BERTRAM. 

/ spare ! 
I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even amongst these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

CALENDARO. 

Yes, such pity 
As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
In the last energy of venomous life, 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these: they form but links 
Of one long chain — one mass, one breath, one body j 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Bevel and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
So let them die as one ! 

dagolino. 

Should one survive,. 
He would be dangerous as the whole: it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'T would fasten in the soil and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruii. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

CALENDARO. 

Look to it well, 
Bertram : I have an eye upon thee. 

BERTRAM. 

Who 
Distrusts me ? 

CALENDARO. 

Not I, for if I did so, 
Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust: 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

BERTRAM. 

You should know, 
Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Boused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who 've seen me 
Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I '11 clear them on your person. 

CALENDARO. 

You are welcome, 
When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



261 



BERTRAM. 

I am no brawler; but can bear myself 

As far among the foe as any he 

"Who hears me; else "why have I been selected 

To be of your chief comrades? But no less 

I own my natural weakness: I have not 

Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 

Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight 

Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 

To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 

Of men surprised a glory. Well too well 

I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers : but 
If there were some of those who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honour, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

DAGOLINO. 

Calm thee, Bertram, 
For we suspect thee not ; and take good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands: we '11 wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio and the Doge disguised. 

DAGOLINO. 

Welcome, Israel! 

CONSPIRATORS. 

Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art late — 
Who is this stranger ? 

CALENDARO. 

It is time to name him. 
Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Stranger, step forth ! 
[The Doge discovers himself. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

To arms! — we are betray'd — it is the Doge ! 
Down with them both! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to. 

calendaro (drawing liis sivord). 
Hold! hold! 
Who moves a step against them dies. Hold! hear 
Bertuccio. — What ! are you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mystery ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Let them advance and strike at their own bosoms, 

Ungrateful suicides! for on our lives 

Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes? 

DOGE. 

Strike!— If I dreaded death, a death more fearful 

Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 

I should not now be here: — Oh, noble courage! 

The eldest-born of Fear, which makes you brave 

Against this solitary hoary head! 

See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 

And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 

At sight of one patrician. — Butcher me, 



You can : I care not. — Israel, are these men 

The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon them! 

CALENDARO. 

Faith ! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in your true chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I disdain to speak. 
They might and must have known a heart like mine 
Incapable of treachery; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
By me into this council, had been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 

DOGE. 

And which am I to be? your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

My lord, we would have perish'd here together, 
Had these rash men proceeded; but, behold, 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
And droop their heads; believe me, they are such 
As I described them. — Speak to them. 

CALENDARO. 

Ay, speak ; 
We are all listening in wonder. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 

(addressing the Conspirators). 

You are safe, 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
And know my words for truth. 

DOGE. 

You see me here, 
As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Bobed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know, or think you know; 
Why I am here he who hath been most wrong'd, 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
Asking of his own heart what brought him here? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here, 
Here at my heart, the outrage — but my words, 
Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons: but I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valour. 
The lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved, 



2&2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Although drest out to head a pageant, as 

The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 

A pastime for their children. You are met 

To overthrow this monster of a state, 

This mockery of a government, this spectre, 

Which must he exorcised with blood, and then 

We will renew the times of truth and justice. 

Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

Not rash equality, but equal rights, 

Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 

Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 

And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 

So that no part could be removed without 

Infringement of the general symmetry. 

In operating this great change, I claim 

To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 

If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 

Than live another day to act the tyrant 

As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 

And never have been — read it in our a*nnals : 

I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A tiling of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture : 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and « the Forty, » 

A sceptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of « the Ten,» a council fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people; 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime, I do devote, 

Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power, such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 

My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I offer me to you 

And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 

A prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 

CALENDARO. 

Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free ! 

CONSPIRATORS. 

Long live Faliero ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Comrades ! did I well ? 
Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

DOGE. 

This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you? 

CALENDARO. 

Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast been 
Of Venice — be our general and chief. 

DOGE. 

Chief ! — General ! — I was general at Zara, 

And chief in Pdiodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice , 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 



To lead a band of — — patriots : when I lay 
Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'T is not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows. But now to the point : 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'T is bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

CALENDARO. 

E'en when thou wilt— is it not so, my friends? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow. 
When shall it be then 1 

DOGE. 

At sunrise. 

BERTRAM. 

So soon? 

DOGE. 

So soon! — so late — each hour accumulates 

Peril on peril, and the more so now 

Since I have mingled with you: know you not 

The Council, and « the Ten !» the spies, the eyes 

Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 

And now more dubious of the prince they have made one ! 

I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly, 

Full to the hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 

CALEXDARO. 

With all my soul and sword I yield assent: 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow. 
Let each repair for action to his post ! 
Aud now, my lord, the signal? 

DOGE. 

When you hear 
The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not be 
Struck without special order of the Doge 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince), 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

And there ? 

DOGE. 

By different routes 
Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, aud still 
Upon the way let your cry be of Avar 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern'd before the port; form round the palace, 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house, 
Many and martial; while the bell tolls on, 
Shout ye « Saint Mark ! the foe is on our waters !» 

CALENDARO. 

I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 

DOGE. 

AH the patricians flocking to the Council 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower), 
Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest, 
And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'T will be but to be taken faint and single, 
When the majority are put to rest. 

CALENDARO. 

Would that the hour were come! we will not scotch. 
But kill. 



MARINO FALIEUO. 



263 



BERTRAM. 

Once more, sirs, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter? 

CALENDARO. 

All who encounter me and mine, he sure, 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

All ! all ! 
Is this a time to talk of pity? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Bertram, 
This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty? all their acts are one — 
A single emanation from one body, 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'T is 
Much that we let their children live; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart : 
The hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs? However, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel: 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 

DOGE. 

Ask me not — tempt me not with such a question — 
Decide yourselves. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You know their private virtues 
Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
Have made them deadly; if there be amongst them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

DOGE. 

Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
My Genoese embassy; I saved the life 
Of Veniero — shall I save it twice? 
Would that I could save them and Venice also! 
All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 

CALENDARO. 

They cannot co-exist with Venice' freedom! 

DOGE. 

Ye, though you know and feel our mutual mass 

Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 

What fatal poison to the springs of life, 

To human ties, and all that 's good and dear, 

Lurks in the present institutes of Venice. 

All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 

Requited honourably my regards; 

We served and fought, we smiled and wept in concert; 

We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 



We made alliances of blood and marriage; 
We grew in years and honours fairly, till 
Their owndesire, not my ambition, made 
Them chuse me for their prince, and then farewell ! 
Farewell all social memory! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
ships, 
When the survivors of long years and actions, 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other, 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
Flit round them, wbisp'ring of the days gone by. 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 

Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 

Oime! Oime! — and must I do this deed? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

My lord, you are much moved: it is not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

DOGE. 

Your patience 
A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge they made 

me — 
Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been, 
Or rather they to me: no friends, no kindness, 
No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
They came not near me, such approach gave umbrage ; 
They could not love me, such was not the law; 
They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy; 
They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty; 
They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state; 
They could not right me, that would give suspicion : 
So that I was a slave to my own subjects, 
So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for power — 
With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 
Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 
I had one only fount of quiet left, 
And that they poison'd ! My pure household gods 
Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
Sate grinning ribaldry and sneering scorn. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You have been deeply wrong'd, and now shall be 
Nobly avenged before another night. 

DOGE. 

I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult, 
Not only unredress'd, but sanctioned; then 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend, and made a sovereign, as boys make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken ! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 



a64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To me, then, these men have no private life, 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others ; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

CALENDARO. 

And now to action ! 
Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere -words: I 'd fain be doing! 
Saint Mark's great bell at da\vn shall find me wakeful ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Disperse then to your posts; be firm and vigilant; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march: I go 
To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory! 

CALENDARO. 

Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to y»u 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

DOGE. 

No; let him be reserved unto the last, 

Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey, 

Till nobler game is quarried: his offence 

Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 

The general corruption generated 

By the foul aristocracy; he could not — 

He dared not in more honourable days 

Have risk'd it! I have merged all private wrath 

Against him, in the thought of our great purpose. 

A slave insults me — I require his punishment 

From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 

The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

CALENDARO. 

Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits: may I? 

DOGE. 

You would but lop the hand, and I the head; 

You would but smite the scholar, I the master; 

You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 

I cannot pause on individual hate, 

In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 

Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 

Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 

Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Away, then, to your posts! I but remain 

A moment to accompany the Doge 

To our late place of trust, to see no spies 

Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 

To where my allotted band is under arms. 

CALENDARO. 

Farewell, then, until dawn. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Success go with you ! 

CONSPIRATORS. 

We will not fail— away ! My lord, farewell! 

[The Conspirators salute the Doge and Israel Ber- 

tuccio, and retire, headed by Philip Galendaro. 

The Doge and Israel Bertuccio remain. 



ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We have them in the toil — it cannot fail! 
Now thou rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest. 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now; 
Cssars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reach'd patricians; but until this hour, 
What prince has plotted for his people's freedom? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise; 't is great, 
And greater the reward : why stand you rapt? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

DOGE. 

And is it then decided? must they die? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Who? 

DOGE. 

My own friends by blood and courtesy, 
And many deeds and days — the senators ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You passed their sentence and it is a just one. 

DOGE. 

Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you; 

You are a patriot, a plebeian Gracchus — 

The rebel's oracle — the people's tribune — 

I blame you not, you act in your vocation; 

They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you ; 

So they have me : but you ne'er spake with them ; 

You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt; 

You never had their wine-cup at your lips; 

You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 

Nor held a revel in their company; 

Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 

In social interchange for yours ; nor trusted, 

Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have. 

These hairs of mine are grey, and so are theirs, 

The elders of the council : I remember 

When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 

As we went forth to take our prey around 

The isles wrung from the false Mahometan: 

And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood? 

Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 

A child : if you are not in second childhood, 

Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 

Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I 'd rather 

Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 

Than see the man I venerate subside 

From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 

You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 

Your own and that of others; can you shrink then 

From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 

Who but give back what they have drain'd from millions? 

DOGE. 

Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on blow, 
I will divide with you; think not I waver: 



MARINO FALIERO. 



265 



Ah ! no; it is the certainty of all 

Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 

But let these last aud lingering thoughts have way, 

To which you only and the night are conscious, 

And hoth regardless: when the hour arrives, 

'T is mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 

Which shall unpeople many palaces, 

And hew the highest geueaiogic trees 

Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 

And crush their blossoms into barrenness. 

This will I — must I — have I sworn to do, 

Nor aught can turn ine from my destiny : 

But still I quiver to behold what I 

Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear with me 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Be-man your breast; I feel no such remorse, 
I understand it not: why should you change? 
You acted, and you act on your free will. 

DOGE. 

Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 

Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 

A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder : 

You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 

As if these high-born men were steers for shambles ! 

When all is over, you '11 be free and merry, 

And calmly wash those hands incarnadine; 

But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 

In this surpassing massacre, shall be, 

Shall see, and feel — oh God! oh God! 't is true, 

And thou dost well to answer that it was 

« My own free will and act;» and yet you err, 

For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 

Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 

And yet I act no more on my free will, 

Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 

But there is hell within me and around, 

And, like the demon who believes and trembles, 

Must I abhor and do. Away! Away! 

Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 

To gather the retainers of our house. 

Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all Venice, 

Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 

Be broad upon the Adriatic, there 

Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 

The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 

I am resolved — come on. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

With all my soul ! 
Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Bemember what these men have dealt to thee, 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city, a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung you 
To punish a few traitors to the people ! 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 

DOGE. 

Man, thou hast struck upon the chord which jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. Lioni laying aside 
the mask and cloak which the Venetian Nobles wore 
in -public , attended by a Domestic. 

LIOM. 

I will to rest, right weary of this revel, 
The gayest we have held for many moons, 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not : 
There came a heaviness across my heart, 
Which in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye and hand in hand united, 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow: I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be ; 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Bose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
Bashing against the outward Lido's bulwark; 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

ANTONIO; 

Yes, my lord ; 
Command you no refreshment? 
lioni. 

Nought, save sleep, 
Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 

[Exit Antonio. 
Though my breast feels too anxious. I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 't is 
A goodly night; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave, 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness 
[Goes to an open lattice 
And what a contrast with the scene I left, 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
There Age, essaying to recal the past, 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 
Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush' d and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 

34 



266 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The garlands, the rose odours, and the flowers— 
The sparkling eyes and flashing ornaments— 
The white arms and the raven hair— the hraids 
And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace, 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
The eye like what it circled; the thin robes 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven ; 
The many-twinkling feet so small and sylph-like, 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 
Its false and true enchantments— art ami nature, 
Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
Are gone.— Around me are the stars and waters- 
Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass; 
And the great element, which is to space 
What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
Soften' d with the first breathings of the spring: 
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 
Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 
Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 
No other record. All is gentle: nought 
Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 
Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, 
And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
That he is not unheard; while her young hand, 
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 
So delicately white, it trembles in 
The act of opening the forbidden lattice, 
To let in love through music, makes his heart 
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight: the dash 
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 
And the responsive voices of the choir 
Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse; 
Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto; 
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire, 
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city. 
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! 
I thank thee, night ! for thou hast chased away 
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
I could not dissipate ; and, with the blessing 
Of thy benign and quiet influence, 
Now will I to my couch, although to rest 
Is almost wronging such a night as this 

[A knocking is heard from without. 
Hark ! what is that? or who at such a moment? 

Enter Antonio. 

ANTONIO. 

My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 



LION T I, 

Is he a stranger? 

ANTONIO. 

His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me. 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself ; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

LIONI. 

T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing! 
And yet there is slight peril: 't is not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at; still, 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, t will be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be? 
Exit Antonio, and returns with Bertram muffled. 

BERTRAM. 

My good lord Lioni, 
I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence, I would be private with you. 

LIONI. 

It seems the voice of Bertram — go, Antonio. 

[Exit Antonio. 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour? 

Bertram (discovering himself). 
A boon, my noble patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 
lioni. 

Thou hast known me 
From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import. But say on — 
What has occurr'd, some rash and sudden broil? — 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

BERTRAM. 

My lord, I thank you; but 

LIONI. 

But what? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not: 
I would not slay, but then I must not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

BERTRAM. 

I come 
To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life : since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword, 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass ! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 
lioni. 

Wherefore not? 
What means this menace' 



MARINO FALIEllO. 



26 



BERTRAM. 

Do not seek its meaning, 
But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er he stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 
Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
Till I return! 

LIONI. 

Again, what does this mean? 

BERTRAM. 

Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
by all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 
by all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
by all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost ! 

LIONI. 

I am indeed already lost in wonder : 

Surely thou ravest! what have I to dread? 

Who are my foes? or, if there be such, wliy 

Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or, if so leagued, 

Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 

And not before? 

BERTRAM. 

I cannot answer this. 
Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 

LIONI. 

I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

BERTRAM. 

Say not so! 
Once more, art thou determined to go forth? 

LIONI. 

I am ; nor is there aught which shall impede me ! 

BERTRAM. 

Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — Farewell ! 

[Going. 

LIONI. 

Stay — there is more in this than my own safety 

Winch makes me call thee back ; we must not part thus : 

Bertram, I have known thee long. 

BERTRAM. 

From childhood, signor, 
You have been my protector: in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
Or, l-ather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother; years 
Saw us together— happy, heart-full hours !— 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 

LIONI. 

Bertram, 't is thou who hast forgotten them, 



BERTRAM. 

Nor now, nor ever; whatsoe'er betide, 

I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth, 

We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 

As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 

Was left unto the labours of the humble, 

Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 

Mave not been towering, 't was no fault of him 

Who oft-times rescued and supported me 

When struggling with the tides of circumstance 

Which bear away the weaker: noble blood 

Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 

lias proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 

Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 

liqni. 
Why, what hast thou to say against the senate? 

BERTRAM. 

Nothing. 

LIONI. 

I know that there are angry spirits 
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns. 
Thou herdest not with such: 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

BERTRAM. 

Rather shame and sorrow light 
On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

LIONI. 

Some villains have been tampering with thee, Bertram . 

This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts. 

Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection; 

But thou must not be lost so : thou wert good 

And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 

As vice and villany would put thee to. 

Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 

What is it thou and thine are bound to do, 

Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 

Of him who was a friend uuto thy father, 

So that our good-will is a heritage 

We should bequeath to our posterity 

Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 

I say, what is it thou must do, that I 

Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 

Like a sick girl? 

BERTRAM. 

Nay, question me no further : 
I must be gone. 

LIONI. 

And I be murder'd ! — say, 
Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram ? 

BERTRAM. 

Who talks of murder? what said I of murder?— 
T is false ! I did not utter such a word. 



a68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIONI. 

Thou didst not; but from out thy wolfish eye, 

So changed from what I knew it, there glares forth 

The gladiator. If my life 's thine object, 

Take it — I am unarm'd, — and then away! 

I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 

As the capricious mercy cf such things 

As thou and those who have set thee to thy task-work. 

BERTRAM. 

Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

LIONI. 

Ay, is it even so? Excuse me, Bertram ; 

I am not worthy to be singled out 

From such exalted hecatombs. Who are they , 

That are in danger, and that make the danger? 

BERTRAM. 

Venice, and all that she inherits, are 

Divided like a house against itself, 

And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 

LIONI. 

More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now, 

Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 

Upon the verge of ruin: speak once out, 

And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 

Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too. 

Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 

How would it look to see upon a spear 

The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 

Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people I 

And such may be my doom; for here I swear, 

Whate'er the peril or the penalty 

Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 

Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 

The consequence of all which led thee here! 

BERTRAM. 

Is there no way to save thee? minutes fly, 
And thou art lost! thou! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 

LIONI. 

Where 
Can lie the honour in a league of murder? 
And who are traitors save unto the state? 

BERTRAM. 

A league is still a compact, and more binding 

In honest hearts when words must stand for law; 

And, in my mind, there is no traitor like 

He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 

Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 

LIONI. 

And who will strike the steel to mine ? 

BERTRAM. 

Not I; 
I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me; — once, once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold! 

LIONI. 

It is in vain— this moment I go forth. 



BERTRAM. 

Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee! 

LIONI. 

Say rather, thy friend's saviour and the state's! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

BERTRAM. 

I have thought again: it must not be — I love thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
Not least though last ; but, having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell ! — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

LIONI. 

What, ho! Antonio — Pedro — to the door! 

See that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Enter Antonio, and other armed Domestics, vjho seize 

Bertram. 

lioni (continues). 

Take care 
He hath no harm; bring me my sword and cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro: — Fear not, Bertram; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 

BERTRAM. 

Where wouldst thou 
Bear me a prisoner? 

LIONI. 

Firstly, to « the Ten ;» 
Next to the Doge. 

BERTRAM. 

To the Doge? 

LIONI. 

Assuredly ; 
Ts he not chief of the state? 

BERTRAM. 

Perhaps at sunrise — 

LIONI. 

What mean you? — but we '11 know anon. 

BERTRAM. 

Art sure ? 

LIONI. 

Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know « the Ten » and their tribunal, 
And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and the dungeons 
A rack. 

BERTRAM. 

Apply to it before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
Ye think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

ANTONIO. 

The bark is ready, 
My lord, and all prepared. 

LIONI. 

Look to the prisoner. 
Bertram, I '11 reason with thee as we go 
To the Magnitico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt 



MARIS O FALIERO. 



269 



SCENE II. 

The Ducal Palace — the Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge and his Nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

doge. 

Are all the people of our house in muster? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

They are array d, and eager for the signal, 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.* 
I come for your last orders. 

DOGE. 

It had heen 
As -well had there been time to have got together 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Methinks, my lord, 't is better as it is; 

A sudden swelling of our retinue 

Had waked suspicion; and, though fierce and trusty 

The vassals of that district are too rude 

And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 

The secret discipline we need for such 

A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

DOGE. 

True; but when once the signal has been given, 

These are the men for such an enterprise : 

These city slaves have all their private bias, 

Their prejudice against or for this noble, 

Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 

Where mercy may be madness; the fierce peasants. 

Serfs of my county of Yal di Marino, 

Would do the bidding of their lord without 

Distinguishing for love or hate his foes; 

Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 

A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 

They are not used to start at those vain names. 

Nor bow the knee before a civic senate : 

A chief in armour is their suzerain, 

And not a thing in robes. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Wc are enough, 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

DOGE. 

Well, 
The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants; 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard; 
But if there 's much to do, you '11 wish with me 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolved 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

DOGE. 

Such blows 
Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn' d about my heart, too fondly yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike; and, firstly, that 
I might not yield again to such emotions; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 



Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 

I knew not.well the courage or the faith : 

To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to us, 

As yesterday a thousand to the senate; 

Bui once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 

They must on for their own sakes; one stroke struck, 

And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 

Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 

Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance, 

Will urge the rest on like to wolves; the sight 

Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 

As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel : 

And you will find a harder task to quell 

Than urge them when they have commenced; but till 

That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow. 

Are capable of turning them aside. — 

How goes the night ? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO- 

Almost upon the dawn. 

DOGE. 

Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted? 

EERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

By this time they are; 
But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through rne in person. 

DOGE. 

T is well. — Will the morn never put to rest 

These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens? 

I am settled and bound up, and being so, 

The very effort which it cost me to 

Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire 

Ncrw leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 

And trembled at the thought of this dread duty; 

But now I have put down all idle passion, 

And look the growing tempest in the face, 

As doth the pilot of an admiral galley i 

Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman'') it hath been 

A greater struggle to me, than when nations 

Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight. 

Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 

Thousands were sure to perish. Yes, to spill 

The rank polluted current from the veins 

Of a few bloated despots needed more 

To steel me to a purpose such as made 

Timoleon immortal, than to face 

The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

DOGE. 

It was ever thus 
With me; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me : this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger : though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, aud injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong, 



270 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And justify their deeds unto themselves. — • 
Methinks the day hreaks — is it not so? look, 
Thine eyes are clear with youth; the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me, 
The sea looks greyer through the lattice. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

True, 
The morn is dappling in the sky. 

DOGE. 

Away, then! 
See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will meet you. 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment, 
tie sure you post yourself by the'great gate; 
I would not trust « The Ten» except to us. 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued with us. 
Remember that the cry is still « Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come — ho! to the rescue! 
Saint Mark and liberty !» — Now — now to action! 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Farewell then, noble uncle! we will meet 
in freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 

DOGE. 

Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace — 
Speed, for the day grows broader. Send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's! 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 
doge (solus). 

He is gone, 
And on each footstep moves a life. — 'T is done. 
Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment poised in middle air, 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou, day! 
That slowly walk'st the waters! march — march on — 
1 would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
I have seeu you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice llowd too, but victorious : 
Now thou must wear an unmix' d crimson; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this! 
I, who was named preserver of the city? 
1, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings, 
And fame and length of days — to see this day? 
But this day, black within the calendar, 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers, 
To vanquish empires and refuse their crown ; 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renew its freedom — but oh! by what means? 
The noble end must justify them. What 
Are a few drops of human blood ? 't is false, 
The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 



Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours, 

Until 't is time to give them to the tombs 

Which they have made so populous. — Oh world! 

Oh men! what arc ye, and our best designs, 

That we must work by crime to punish crime? 

And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 

When a few years would make the sword superfluous? 

And I, upon the verge of the unknown realm, 

Yet send so many heralds on before me? — 

I must not ponder this. 

\A pause. 
Hark! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise.' 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung- 
Why pauses it? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal, 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell, 
Which never knells but for a princely death, 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfulest and last. 
Sound till the strong tower rock! — What, silent still ! 
I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be the centre of re-union to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering or the weak, in case of conflict : 
For if they should do battle, 't will be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken: 
Then here must be my station as becomes 
The master mover. — Hark! he comes — he comes, 
My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings? Is he marching? Hath he sped? — 
They here ! — all 's lost — yet will I make an effort. 
Enter a Signor of the Night, 5 with Guards, etc. 
signor of the night. 
Doge, I arrest thee of high treason! 

DOGE. 

Me! 
Thy prince, of treason ! — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order? 

signor of the night (showing his order). 
Behold my order from the assembled Ten. 

doge. 
And where are they, and why assembled? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

signor of the night. 

Duke, it may not be ; 
Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviours. 

DOGE. 

You dare to disobey me then? 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

I serve 
The state, and needs must serve it faithfully. 
3Iy warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

DOGE. 

And till that warrant has my signature 
it is illegal and, as now applied, 



MARINO 


FALIERO. 271 


Rebellious — Hast thou weigh' d well thy life's worth, 


doge (aside). 


That thus you dare assume a lawless function? 


There now is nothing left me save to die; 


SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 


And yet how near success ! I would have fallen, 


'T is not my office to reply, but act — 


And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 


I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 


To miss it thus! 


And not as judge to hear or to decide. 


Enter other Signors of the Night with Bertuccio 


doge (aside). 


Falif.ro prisoner. 


I must gain time — So that the storm-bell sound, 


SECOND SIGNOR. 


All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — speed! 


We took him in the act 


Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 


Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 


Woe to the vanquished! be they prince and people 


As delegated from the Doge, the signal 


Or slaves and senate — 


Had thus begun to sound. 


[The great bell of St Mark's tolls. 


FIRST SIGNOR. 


Lo ! it sounds — it tolls! 


Are all the passes 


doge (aloud). 


Which lead up to the palace well secured? 


Hark, Signor of the night ! and you, ye hirelings, 


SECOND SIGNOR. 


Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, 


They are — besides, it matters not; the chiefs 


It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal! 


Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 


Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives? 


Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 


SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


Confusion ! 


Uncle ! 


Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all 's lost 


DOGE. 


Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 


It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 


The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose, 


The glory hath departed from our house. 


Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


Anselmo, with thy company proceed 


Who would have deem'd it? — Ah ! one moment sooner ! 


Straight to the tower; the rest remain with me. 


DOGE. 


[Exit a part of the Guard. 


That moment would have changed the face of ages; 


DOGE. 


This gives us to eternity. We '11 meet it 


Wretch! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, implore it; 


As men whose triumph is not in success, 


It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 


But who can make their own minds all in ail 


Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 


Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 't is 


They never shall return. 


But a brief passage — I would go alone; 


SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 


Yet if they send us, as 't is like, together, 


So let it be! 


Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 


They die then in their duty, as will I. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


DOGE. 


I shall not shame you, uncle. 


Fool! the high eagle flies at nobler game 


FIRST SIGNOR. 


Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 


Lords, our orders 


So thou provokest not peril by resistance, 


Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 


And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 


Until the council call ye to your trial. 


To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 


DOGE. 


SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 


Our trial! will they keep their mockery up 


And learn thou to be captive — ft hath ceased, 


Even to the last? but let them deal upon us 


[The bell ceases to toll. 


As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 


The traitorous signal, which was to have set 


'T is but a game of mutual homicides, 


The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 


Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 


The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 


Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our Judas? 


doge (after a pause). 


FIRST SIGNOR. 


All 's silent, and all 's lost ! 


I am not warranted to answer that. 


SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


Now, Doge, denounce me 


I '11 answer for thee — t is a certain Bertram, 


As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 


Even now deposing to the secret Giunta. 


Have I not done my duty? 


DOGE. 


doge. 


Bertram, the Bergamask! With what vile tools 


Peace, thou thing! 


We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 


Thou hast done a worthy deed, and earn'd the price 


Black with a double treason, now will earn 


Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 


Rewards and honours, and be stampt in story 


But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 


With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 


As thou said'st even now : then do thine office, 


Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 


But let it be in silence, as behoves thee, 


While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast 


Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 


From the Tarpeian. 


SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 


FIRST SIGNOR. 


I did not mean to fail in the respect 


He aspired to treason, 


Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 


And sought to rule the state. 



272 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



He saved the state, 
And sought hut to reform what he revived. 
Cut this is idle — Come, sirs, do your work. 

FIRST S1GNOR. 

Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove you 
Into an inner chamber. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Farewell, uncle ! 
If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 

DOGE. 

Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth, 

And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in! 

They cannot quench the memory of those 

Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty thrones, 

And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the 
additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Con- 
spirators for the Treason of Marino Faliero, com- 
posed what was called the Giunta. — Guards, Offi- 
cers, etc., etc. — Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 
daro as Prisoners. — Bertram, Lioni, and Witnesses, 
etc. 

The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 

BENINTENDE. 

There now rests, after such conviction of 

Their manifold and manifest offences, 

But to pronounce on these obdurate men 

The sentence of the law : a grievous task 

To those who hear and those who speak. Alas ! 

That it should fall to me, and that my days 

Of office should be stigmatised through all 

The years of coming time, as bearing record 

To this most foul and complicated treason 

Against a just and free state, known to all 

The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 

The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 

The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank; 

A city which has open'd India's wealth 

To Europe; the last Roman refuge from 

Overwhelming Attila; the ocean's queen; 

Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'T is to sap 

The throne of such a city, these lost men 

Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — 

So let them die the death. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We are prepared ; 
Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

BENINTENDE. 

If ye have that to say which would obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you: if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time ; perhaps it may avail ye. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We stand to hear, and iiot to speak. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your crimes 
Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 



Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Justice ! 

BENINTENDE. 

What 
Your object? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Freedom! 

BENINTENDE. 

You are brief, sir. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

BENINTENDE. 

Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 

To brave your judges to postpone the sentence? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Do you be brief as I am, and, believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 

BENINTENDE. 

Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Go, ask your racks what they have wrung from us, 

Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left, 

And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs : 

But this ye dare not do; for if we die there — 

And you have left us little life to spend 

Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 

Ye lose the public spectacle with which 

You would appal your slaves to further slavery! 

Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 

Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 

Should overcome the soul into a lie, 

For a short respite — Must we bear or die? 

BENINTENDE. 

Say, who were your accomplices? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

The senate ! 

BENINTENDE. 

What do you mean? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Ask of the suffering people, 
YThom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 

BENINTENDE, 

You know the Doge? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I served with him at Zara 
In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
To present office: we exposed our lives, 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence: 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the senate's insults! 

BENINTENDE. 

You have held conference with him? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

lam weary — 
Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

BENINTENDE. 

It is coming. — 
And you, too, Philip Calendaro , what 



MARINO 


FALIERO. 278 


Have you to say why you should not he doom'd? 


CALENDARO. 


CALENDARO. 


I knew that we were gagg'd in life; at least, 


I never was a man of many words, 


All those wlio had not heart to risk their lives 


And now have few left worth the utterance. 


Upon their open thoughts; but still I deem'd 


BENINTENDE. 


That in the last few moments, the same idle 


A further application of yon engine 


Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 


May change your tone. 


Would not now be denied to us; but since 


CALENDARO. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Most true, it will do so : 


Even let them have their way, brave Calendaro ! 


A former application did so; but 


What matter a few syllables? let 's die 


It will not change my words, or if it did 


Without the slightest show of favour from them; 


BENINTENDE. 


So shall our blood more readily arise 


What then ? 


To heaven against them, and more testify 


CALENDARO. 


To their atrocities, than could a volume 


Will my avowal on yon rack 


Spoken or written of our dying words ! 


Stand good in law? 


They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 


BENINTENDE. 


Our very silence — let them live in fear ! 


Assuredly. 


Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 


CALENDARO. 


Address our own above! — Lead on; we are ready. 


Whoe'er 


CALENDARO. 


The culprit be whom I accuse of treason? 


Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd uuto me, 


BENINTENDE. 


It had not now been thus; and yon pale villain, 


Without doubt he will be brought up to trial. 


The coward Bertram, would 


CALENDARO. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


And on this testimony would he perish? 


Peace, Calendaro ! 


BENINTENDE. 


What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 


So your confession be detail d and full, 


BERTRAM. 


He will stand here in peril of his life. 


Alas! I fain you died in peace with me : 


CALENDARO. 


I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon me. 


Then look well to thy proud self, President ! 


Say, you forgive me, though I never can 


For by the eternity which yawns before me, 


Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus! 


I swear that tiiou, and only thou, shalt be 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 


I die and pardon thee! 


If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 


calendaro (spitting at him). 


ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 


I die and scorn thee ! 


Lord President, 't were best proceed to judgment; 


[Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 


There is no more to be drawn from these men. 


daro, Guards, etc. 


BENINTENDE. 


BENINTENDE. 


Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 


Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 


The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 


T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 


The state' now stands in, leave not an hour's respite. 


Upon the greatest traitor upon record 


Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 


In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 


Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday, 6 


The proofs and process are complete; the time 


The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 


And crime require a quick procedure. Shall 


Let them be justified; and leave exposed 


He now be call'd in to receive the award ! 


Their wavering relics in the place of judgment, 


THE GIUNTA. 


To the full view of the assembled people ! 


Ay, ay. 

BENINTENDE. 


And Heaven have mercy on their souls! 


THE GIUNTA. 


Avogadori, order that the Doge 


Amen ! 


Be brought before the council. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 


Signors, farewell ! we shall not all again 


And the rest. 


Meet in one place. 


When shall they be brought up? 


BENINTENDE. 


BENINTENDE. 


And, lest they should essay 


When all the chiefs 


To stir up the distracted multitude — 


Have been disposed of. Some have tied to Chiozza : 


Guards! let their mouths be gagg'd,7 even in the act 


But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 


Of execution. — Lead them hence! 


And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 


CALENDARO. 


As well as in the islands, that we hope 


What! must we 


None will escape to utter in strange lands 


Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 


His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 


Nor leave a last word with our confessor? 


Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, etc., etc. 


BENINTENDE. 


BENINTENDE. 


A priest is waiting in the antechamber; 


Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 


But, for your friends, such interviews would be 


Must be considered, till the hour shall come 


Painful to them, and useless all to you. 


When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 

35 



274 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


That head, which could not wear a crown more nohle 


DOGE. 


Than empires can confer in quiet honour, 


The signory of Venice ! You betray' d me — 


But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 


You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are! 


Who made you what you are, and quench iu blood 


From my equality with you in birth, 


A city's glory — we have laid already 


And my superiority in action, 


Before you in your chamber at full length, 


You drew me from my honourable toils 


By the Avogadori, all the proofs 


In distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 


Which have appear'd against you ; and more ample 


Fou singled me out like a victim to 


Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 


Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 


Confront a traitor. What have you to say 


Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 


In your defence ? 


I sought not — wish'd not — dream'd not the election, 


DOGE. 


Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 


What shall I say to ye, 


But found on my arrival, that besides 


Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 


The jealous vigilance which always led you 


You are at once offenders and accusers, 


To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 


Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 


You had, even in the interregnum of 


Upon your power. 


My journey to the capital, curtail'd 


BENINTENDE. 


And mutilated the few privileges 


Your chief accomplices 


Yet left the duke: all this I bore, and would 


Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 


Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 


DOGE. 


By the pollution of your ribaldry, 


Aud who be they? 


And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 


BENINTENDE. 


Fit judge in such tribunal ! 


In number many; but 


benintende (interrupting him). 


The first now stands before you in the court, 


Michel Steno 


Bertram, of Bergamo : would you question him? 


Is here in virtue of his office, as 


doge (looking at him contemptuously). 


One of the Forty. « The Ten » having craved 


No. 


A Giunta of patricians from the senate 


EEN1NTENDE. 


To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 


And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 


And novel as the present, he was set 


And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 


Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 


Their fellowship in treason with the Doge! 


Because the Doge, who should protect the law, 


DOGE. 


Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 


And where are they? 


No punishment of others by the statutes 


BENINTENDE. 


Which he himself denies and violates ! 


Gone to their place, and now 


DOGE. 


Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 


His punishment! I rather see him there, 


DOGE. 


Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 


Ah! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone? 


Than in the mockery of castigation, 


And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 


Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 


How did they meet their doom? 


Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 


BENINTENDE. 


T was purity compared with your protection. 


Think of your own; 


BENINTENDE. 


It is approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 


And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 


DOGE. 


With three parts of a century of years 


I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 


And honours on his head, could thus allow 


Can recognise your legal power to try me : 


His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 


Show me the law ! 


All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 


BENINTENDE. 


A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 


On great emergencies, 


DOGE. 


The law must be remodell'd or amended : 


A spark creates the flame; 't is the last drop 


Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 


Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 


Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 


Already : you oppress'd the prince and people; 


The sentence against parricide was left 


I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both: 


In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 


The price of such success would have been glory, 


That penal, which had neither name nor thought 


Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 


In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 


As would have made Venetian history 


That nature could be filed to such a crime 


Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 


As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms ? 


When they were freed and flourish'd ages after, 


Your sin hath made us make a law -which will 


And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus: 


Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, 


Failing, I know the penalty of failure 


As would with treason mount to tyranny; 


Is present infamy and death — the future 


Not even contented with a sceptre, till 


Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free; 


They can convert it to a two-edged sword. 


Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 


Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 


I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none : 


What 's nobler than the signory of Venice? 


My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 



MARINO FALIERO. 



a 7 ! 



And being lost, take what I would have taken! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs : 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 

BENINTENDE. 

You do confess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal? 

DOGE. 

I confess to have fail'd : 
Fortune is female ; from my youth her favours 
Were not withheld : the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

BENINTENDE. 

You do not then in aught arraign our equity? 

DOGE. 

Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions, 

I am resign'd to the worst; but in me still 

Have something of the blood of brighter days, 

And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 

Further interrogation, which boots nothing 

Except to turn a trial to debate. 

I shall but answer that which will offend you, 

And please your enemies — a host already. 

'T is true, these sullen walls should yield no echo ; 

But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues ; 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things, 
And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them : bury mine, 
If ye would fain survive me. Take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; — 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself, 
And sentence from the court '. 

EENINTENDE. 

This full admission 
Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

DOGE. 

The torture ! you have put me there already 

Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 

Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 

Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 

There 's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 

Enter an Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 

Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 

BENINTENDE. 

Sav, conscript fathers, 8 shall she be admitted? 

ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 

She may have revelations of importance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

BENINTENDE. 

Is this the general will ? 



It is. 

DOGE. 

Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 
Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour as 
Sit here do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 

The Duchess enters. 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady! this just tribunal has resolved, 

Though the request be strange, to grant it, and, 

Whatever be its purport, to accord 

A patient hearing with the due respect 

Which tits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 

But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 

Place a chair instantly. 

ANGIOLINA. 

A moment's faintness — 
'T is past, I pray you pardon me, I sit nGt 
In presence of my prince, and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your pleasure, lady ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
To know the worst ; even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows: 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 

benintende (after a pause). 
Spare us, and spare thyself the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to Heaven and man ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yet speak ; I cannot — 
I cannot — no — even now believe these things ; 
Is he condemn' d ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Alas ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

And was he guilty ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady ! the natural distraction of 

Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 

Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 

Against a just and paramount tribunal 

Were deep offence. But question even th« Doge ; 

And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 

Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Is it so ? 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

BENINTENDE. 

He hath already own'd to his own guilt, 
Nor, as thou seest, doth he deny it now. 



27 6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ANGIOLINA. 

Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years, 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
One day of baffled crime must not efface 
Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 

BENINTENDE. 

His doom must be fulfill'd without remission 
Of time or penalty — 't is a decree. 

ANGIOLINA. 

He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 

BENINTENDE. 

Not in this case with justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas ! signor. 
He who is only just is cruel ; who 
Upon the earth would live, were all judged justly ? 

BENINTENDE. 

His punishment is safety to the state. 

ANGIOLINA. 

He was a subject, and hath served the state ; 
He was your general, and hath saved the state .; 
He.is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 

ONE OF THE COUNCIL. 

He is a traitor, and betray'd the state. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And, but for him, there now had been no state 
To save or to destroy ; and you who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 

ONE OF THE COUNCIL. 

No, lady, there are others who would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

If there are so 
Within these walls, thou art not of the number : 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
Is there no hope ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady, it cannot be. 
angiolina (turning to the doge). 
Then die, Faliero ! since it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, 
Half-cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 
Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 

doge. 
I have lived too long not to know how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

MICHEL STENO. 

Doge, 
A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 



Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 

I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 

Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 

Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 

Further than to create a moment's pity 

For such as he is : would that others had 

Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 

My honour to a thousand lives, could such 

Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 

A single life of others lost for that 

Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 

Of virtue, looking not to what is called 

A good name for reward, but to itself. 

To me the scorner's words were as the wind 

Unto the rock : but as there are — alas ! 

Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 

Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 

To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 

More terrible than death here and hereafter ; 

Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 

And who, though proof against all blandishments 

Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 

When the proud name on which they pinnacled 

Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 

Of her high aiery ; let what we now 

Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 

To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 

With beiugs of a higher order. Insects 

Have made the lion mad ere now : a shaft 

I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 

A wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy; 

A wife's dishonour unking' d Rome for ever ; 

An injured husband brought the Gauls to Ciusium, 

Aud thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 

An obscene gesture cost Caligula 

His life, while earth yet bore his cruelties ; 

A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province ; 

And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 

Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 

A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 

Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head, 

And forged new fetters for a groaning people '. 

Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 

Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 

If it so please him — 't were a pride fit for him! 

But let him not insult the last hours of 

Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 

By the intrusion of his very prayers ; 

Nothing of good can come from such a source, 

Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever : 

We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 

Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 

And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 

And no resentment ; things like him must sting, 

And higher beings suffer; 't is the charter 

Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 

May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 

'T was the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 

In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



277 



DOGE (tO BENINTENDE). 

Signor, complete that which you deem your duty. 

BENINTENDE. 

Before we can proceed upon that duty, 

We would request the princess to withdraw: 

'T will move her too much to he witness to it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I know it will, and yet I must endure it; 
For t is a part of mine— I will not quit, 
Except hy force, my husband's side. — Proceed! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear! 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak! 
I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 

BENINTENDE. 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 

Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 

And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 

Noble Venetian, many times and oft 

Entrusted by the state with high employments, 

Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 

Convict by many witnesses and proofs, 

And by thine own confession, of the guilt 

Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 

Until this trial — the decree is death. 

Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 

Thy name is razed from out her records, save 

Upon a public day of thanksgiving 

For this our most miraculous deliverance, 

When thou art noted in our calendars 

With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 

And the great enemy of man, as subject 

Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, — 

« This place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes. » 

DOGE. 

What crimes? 
Were it not better to record the facts, 
So that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 

BENINTENDE. 

Time must reply to that; our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall be struck off ; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 

DOGE. 

Is this the Giunta's sentence? 

BENINTENDE. 

It is. 

DOGE. 

I can endure it. — And the time? 

BENINTENDE. 

Must be immediate.— Make thy peace with God; 
Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 

DOGE. 

I am already; and my blood will rise 



To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
Are all my lands confiscated ! 

BENINTENDE. 

They are: 
And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

DOGE. 

That's harsh — I would have fain reserved the lands 

Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 

From Lawrence, the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 

In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 

To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 

My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 

Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

BENINTENDE. 

These 
Lie under the state's ban, their chief, thy nephew. 
In peril of his own life; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Signors, 
I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
I am devoted unto God alone, 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

DOGE. 

Come ! 
The hour may be a hard one, but 't will end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death? 

BENINTENDE. 

You have nought to do except confess and die. 
The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
And both await without. — But, above all, 
Think not to speak unto the people; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, 
But these are closed: the Ten, the Avogadori, 
The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 

DOGE. 

The Doge ! 

BENINTENDE. 

Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die 

A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 

The separation of that head and trunk, 

That ducal crown and head shall be united. 

Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 

To plot with petty traitors; not so we, 

Who in the very punishment acknowledge 

The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 

The dog's death, and the wolf's; but thou shalt fall, 

As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 

Cy those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 

And mourn even the inevitable death 

Provoked by thy wild wrath and regal fierceness. 

Now we remit thee to thy preparation: 

Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 

Thy guides unto the place where first we were 

United to thee as thy subjects, and 

Thy senate; and must now be parted from thee 

As such for ever on the self-same spot. — 

Guards! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

[Exeta 



278 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SCENE IT. 

The Doges Apartment. 
The Doge as prisoner, and the Duchess attending him. 

DOGK. 

Now that the priest is gone, 't were useless all 

To linger out the miserable minutes ; 

But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 

And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 

Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 

Still falling — I have done with Time. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas! 
And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 

DOGE. 

Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse; 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

ANGIOLINA. 

How foretold you? 

DOGE. 

Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 

In memory, and yet they live in annals : 

When I was in my youth, and served the senate 

And signory as podesta and captain 

Of the town of Treviso, on a day 

Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 

Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 

By strange delay, and arrogant reply 

To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote him, 

Until he reel'd beneath his holy burthen; 

And, as he rose from earth again, he raised 

His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards Heaven. 

Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from him, 

He turn'd to me, and said, «The hour will come 

When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee: 

The glory shall depart from out thy house, 

The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 

And in thy best maturity of mind, 

A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee ; 

Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 

In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 

And majesty, which decks all other heads, 

Shall crown to leave thee headless; honours shall 

But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 

And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 

But not such death as fits an aged man.» 

Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And with this warning couldst thou not have striven 

To avert the fatal moment, and atone 

By penitence for that which thou hadst done! 

DOGE. 

I own the words went to my heart, so much 

That I remember'd them amid the maze 

Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 

Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 

And I repented ; but 't was not for me 

To pull in resolution : what must be 

I could not change, and would not fear. Nay, more, 

Thou canst not have forgot what all remember, 

That on my day of landing here as Doge, 



On my return from Rome, a mist of such 

Unwonted density went on before 

The bucentaur, like the columnal cloud 

Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 

The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 

iietween the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 't is 

The custom of the state to put to death 

Its criminals, instead of touching at 

The Biva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 

So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ah! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

DOGE. 

And yet I find a comfort in 
The thought that these things are the work of Fate ; 
For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
Piather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'er-ruling power : they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Employ the minutes left in aspirations 

Of a more healing nature, and in peace 

Even with these wretches take thy flight to heaven. 

DOGE. 

I am at peace: the peace of certainty 

That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons, 

And this proud city, and these azure waters, 

And all which makes them eminent and bright, 

Shall be a desolation and a curse, 

A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 

A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean-Babel! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Speak not thus now: the surge of passion still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

DOGE. 

I stand within eternity, and see 

Into eternity, and I behold — 

Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 

For the last time — the days which I denounce 

Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 

And they who are indwellers. 

GUARD [coming forward). 

Doge of Venice, 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 

DOGE. 

Then farewell, Angiolina! — one embrace — 

Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 

A fond but fatal husband : love my memory. 

I would not ask so much for me still living, 

But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 

Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 

Resides, of all the fruit of these long years, 

Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name, 

Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 

Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 

A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 

No, not enough to extract an epitaph 

From ostentatious kinsmen; in one hour 

1 have uprooted all my former life, 

And outlived every thing, except thy heart, 



MARINO FALIERO. 



79 



The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep Thou turu'st so pale — Alas! she faints, 

She hath no breath, no pulse! Guards ! lend your aid — 
I cannot leave her thus, and yet 't is better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal— ^Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand! as cold as mine 
Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 
And take my last thanks. — I am ready now. 

[The Attendants o/Angiolina enter and sur- 
round their mistress, who has fainted. — 
Exeunt the Doge, Guards, etc., etc. 



SCENE III. 



The Court of the Ducal Palace: tiie outer gates are 
shut against the people. — The Doge enters in his 
ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten 
and other Patricians, attended by the Guards, till 
they arrive at the top of the « Giant's Staircase* 
(where the Doges took the oaths) ; the Executioner is 
stationed there with his sword. On arriving, a Chief 
of the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the Doge's 
head. 

doge. 

So, now the Doge is nothing, and at last 

I am again Marino Faliero : 

T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 

Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven! 

With how much more contentment I resign 

That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 

Than I received the fatal ornament. 

ONE OF THE TEN. 

Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

DOGE. 

T is with age, then. 9 

BENINTENDE. 

Faliero! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate? 

DOGE. 

T would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to their justice; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

BENINTENDE. 

They shall be cared for ; 
Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

DOGE. 

Unheard-of! ay, there's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

BENINTENDE. 

And who are they who fell in such a cause ? 

DOGE. 

The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — 
Agis and Faliero ! 

BENINTENDE. 

Hast thou more 



To utter or to do '. 



DOGE. 

May I speak? 

BENINTENDE. 



Thou mayst; 



Cut recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

DOGE. 

I speak to Time and to Eternity, 

Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 

Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 

I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 

Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 

Ye winds ! which flutter' d o'er as if you loved it, 

And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 

To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 

Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 

Which drank this willing blood from many a wound! 

Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 

Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 

Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 

Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest 

I am not innocent — but are these guiltless? 

I perish, but not unavenged; far ages 

Float up from the abyss of time to be, 

And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 

Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers for ever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day, 

When she who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence 

As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, 

Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 

And sold, and be an appanage to those 

Who shall despise her! — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 

Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! I0 

Then, when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces, 11 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 

When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 

In narrow streets, and in their shameful neetl 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 

Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Bound a barbarian Vice of Kings Vice-gerent, 

Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 

Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation; — when 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 

Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors, 

Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vice3 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 

All thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 

Vice without splendour, sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 

But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, 

Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 



a8o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 

When these and more ?.re heavy on thee, -when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes -without pleasure, 

Youth without honour, age -without respect, 

Meanness and -weakness, and a sense of woe 

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and darest not murmur 

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts ; 

Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 

Amidst thy many murders, think of mine ! 

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes! i2 

Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 

Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 

Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

[Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Exe- 
cutioner. 

Slave, do thine office • 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[The Doge throws himself upon his knees, 
and as the Executioner raises his sword 
the scene closes. 



SCENE IV. 



The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint Mark's—The Peo- 
ple in crowds gathered round the grated gates of the 
Ducal Palace, whichare shut. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

I have gain'd the gate, and can discern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

I cannot reach thee with mine utmost effort. 
How is it? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

One has approach'd the Doge, and now they strip 

The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 

He raises his keen eyes to heaven. I see 

Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! hush ! No, 

'T was but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 

His words are inarticulate, but the voice 

Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 

But gather a sole sentence ! 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Hush ! we perhaps may catch the sound. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

'T is vain. 
I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
Now — now — he kneels— and now they form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it falls ! 

[The people murmur 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

Then they have murder'd him who would have freed us, 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

He was a kind man to the commons ever. 

FIFTH CITIZEN. 

Wisely they did to keep their portals barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were summon d here ; we would have brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 

SIXTH CITIZEN. 

Are you sure he 's dead ? 



FIRST CITIZEN. 

I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what have we here? 
[Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts Saint 
Mark's Place a Chief of the Ten l3 with a Moody 
sword. He waves it thrice before the People, and 
exclaims, 
« Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor !» 

[Tlie gates are opened; the populace rush in towards 
the « Giant's Staircase,* wliere the execution has 
taken place. The foremost of them exclaims to 
those behind, 
The gory head rolls down the « Giant's Steps !» 

[The curtain falls. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 248, line 5g. 
I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso. 
An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
Doges. 

Note 2. Page 25 1, line 69. 

A gondola, with one oar only. 

A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 

rowed with one oar as with two (though of course not 

so swiftly), and often is so from motives of privacy, and 

(since the decay of Venice) of economy. 

Note 3. Page 260, lines 65 and 66. 

They think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory. 

An historical fact. 

Note 4. Page 269, line 8. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo. 
The Doge's private family palace. 

Note 5. Page 270, line io5. 
s Signor of the Night." 
« I Signori di Notte» held an important charge in 
the old Republic. 

Note 6. Page 273, line 43. 
Festal Thursday. 
« Giovedi Grasso,» «fat or greasy Thursday," which 
I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 

Note 7. Page 273, line 57. 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act. 
Historical fact. See Sanuto, in the Appendix to this 
tragedy. 

Note 8. Page 275, line 5g. 
Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted? 
The Venetian senate took the same title as the Ro- 
man, of « Conscript Fathers." 

Note 9. Page 279, line 36. 
'T is with age, then. 
This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, to 
a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on his 
way to execution, in the earliest part of their revolution. 
I find in reading over (since the completion of this 
tragedy), for the first time these six years, « Venice 
Preserved," a similar reply on a different occasion by 
Renault, and other coincidences arising from the sub- 
ject. I need hardly remind the gentlest reader, that 
such coincidences must be accidental, from the very 
facility of their detection by reference to so popular a 



MARINO FALIERO. 



28 



play on the stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
(lieuvre. 

Note 10. Page 279, line 99. 

Beggars for nobles, paudars for a people. 

Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
reader look to the historical, of the period prophesied, 
or rather of the fe%v years preceding that period. Vol- 
taire calculated their « nostre henemerite Meretrici,» at 
twelve thousand of regulars, without including volun- 
teers and local militia, on what authority 1 know not; 
hut it is perhaps the only part of the population not 
decreased. Venice once contained two hundred thou- 
sand inhabitants; there are now about ninety thou- 
sand, and these ! ! Few individuals can conceive, and 
none could describe, the actual state into which the 
more than infernal tyranny of Austria has plunged this 
unhappy city. 

Note 11. Page 279, line 100. 
Then, when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces. 

The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
Jews; who in the earlier times of the Republic were 
only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the 
city of Venice. The whole commerce is in the hands 
of the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns form the gar- 
rison. 

Note 12. Page 280, line 10. 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes! 

Of the first fifty Doges, five abdicated— five were 
banished with their eyes put out — five were massacred 
— and nine deposed; so that nineteen out of fifty lost 
the throne by violence, besides two who fell in battle: 
this occurred long previous to the reign of Marino 
Faliero. One of his more immediate predecessors, An- 
drea Dandolo, died of vexation. Marino Faliero him- 
self perished as related. Amongst his successors, Fos- 
cari, after seeing his son repeatedly tortured and ba- 
nished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Marks toll for the 
election of his successor. Morosini was impeached for 
the loss of Candia; but this was previous to his duke- 
dom, during which he conquered the Morea, and was 
styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 

Npte io. Page 2S0, line 68. 

Chief of the Ten. 

« Un Capo de' Dieci» are the words of Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 



APPENDIX. 



MGCGLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLTX. 
« Fu eletto da quarantuno Elettori, il quale era Ca- 
valiere e conte di Valdemarino in Trivigiaua, ed era 
ricco, e si trovava ambasciadore a R.oma. E a di 9, di 
Settembre, dopo sepolto il suopredecessore, fu chiamato 
il gran Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge giusta il so- 
lito. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, Ser Bernardo 
Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo Loredano, SerFilippo 
Aurio, Ser Pietro Trivisano, e Ser Tommaso Viadro. 
I quali a di 10, misero queste correzioni alia promo- 
zione del Doge: che i Consiglieri non odano gli Oratori 



e Nunzi de' Signori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, ne pos- 
sano rispondere ad alcuno, se non sarauno quattro Con- 
siglieri e due Capi de' Quaranta. E che osservino la 
forma del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo Doge si 
metta nella miglior parte, quando i giudici tra loro non 
fossero d'accordo. E ch' egli non possa far vendere i 
suoi imprestiti, salvo con legittima causa, e col voler di 
cinque Consiglieri, di due Capi de' Quaranta, e delle due 
parti del Consiglio de' Pregati. Item, che in luogo di tre 
mila pelli di Conigli, che debbon dare i Zaratini per re- 
galia al Doge, non trovandosi tante pelli, gli diano Du- 
cati ottanta l'anno. E poi a di 1 1, detto, misero etiam 
altre correzioni, che se il Doge, che sara eletto, fosse 
fuori di Venezia, i savj possano provvedere del suo ri- 
torno. E quando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia Vicedoge 
unp de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. E che il 
detto sia nominato Viceluogotenente di Messer lo Doge, 
quando i giudici faranno i supi atti. E nota, perchc fu 
fatto Doge uno, ch'era assente, che fu Vicedoge Ser Ma- 
rino Badoero piu vecchio de' Consiglieri. Item, che i| 
governo del Ducato sia commesso a' Consiglieri, e a' 
Capi de' Quaranta, quaudo vachera il Ducato, hnehe 
sara eletto 1' altro Doge. E cost a di 1 1 di Settembre 
fu creato il prefato Marino Faliero Doge. E fu preso, 
che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' Consiglieri 
e a' Capi de' Quaranta. I quali stiano in Palazzo di 
contiuuo, fino che verra il Doge. Sicche di continuo 
stiano in Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo de" Qua- 
ranta. E subito furono spedite lettere al detto Doge, 
il quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa In- 
nocenzo VI, ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
Consiglio d'eleggere dodici ambasciadori incontro a 
Marino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da B.oma. E giunto 
a Chioggia, ii Podesta mandb Taddeo Giustiniani suo 
figliuolo incontro, con quindici Ganzaruoli. E poi ve- 
nuto a S. Clcmente nel Bucintoro, venue un gran caligo, 
ndeo che ij Bucintoro non si pote levarc. Laonde il 
Doge co' gentilupmini nelle piatte veunero di lungo in 
quesfa Terra a' 5 d'Ottobre del 1 354- E dovendo sruon- 
tare alia riva della Paglia per lo caligo andarono ad 
ismontare alia riva della Piazza in mezzo alle due co- 
lonne dove si fa la Giustizia, che fu un malissimo augu- 
rio. E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San Marco 
alia laudazione di quello. Era in questo tempo Cancel- 
lier Grande Messer Benintendc. I quarantuno Flettort 
furono, Ser Giovanni Coutarini, Ser' Andrea Giustiniani, 
Ser Miehele Morosini, Ser Simoue Dandolo, Ser Pietro 
Lando, Ser Marino Gradenigo, Ser Marco Dolfino, Ser 
Nicolb Faliero, Ser Giovanni Ouirini, Ser Lorenzo So- 
ranzo, Ser Marco Uembo, Sere Stefano Celeguo, Ser Fran- 
cesco Loredano, Ser Marino Vcniero, Ser Giovanni .\!o- 
cenigo, Ser Andrea Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, Ser 
Bettino da Molino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procuratore, Ser 
Marco Celsi, Ser Paolo Donato, Ser Bertucci Grimani, 
Ser Pietro Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, Ser' Andrea Pisani, 
Ser Francesco Caravello, Ser Jacopo Trivisano ? Sere 
Schiavft Marcello, Ser Maffeo Aimo, Ser Marco Ca- 
pello, Ser Pancrazio Giorgio, Ser Giovanni Foscarini, 
Ser Tommaso Viadro, Sere Schiava Polani, Ser Marco 
Polo, Ser Marino Sagredo, Sere Stefano Mariani, Ser 
Francesco Suriano, Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea 
Gritti, Ser Buono da Mosto. 

« Trattato di Messer Marino Faliero Doge, tratto da 
una Cronica antica. Essendo venuto il Giovedi della 
Gaccia, fu fatta giusta il solito la Caccia. E a' que, 

36 



9.82 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tempi dopo fatta la Caccia s'andava in Palazzo del Doge 
in una di quelle sale, e con donne facevasi una festic- 
ciuola, dove si ballava fino alia prima campana, eve- 
niva una colazione ; la quale spesa faceva Messer lo 
Doge, quando v era la Dogaressa. E poscia tutti anda- 
vano a casa sua. Sopra la qual festa, pare, che Ser Mi- 
chele Steno, molto giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma 
ardito e astuto, il quale era innamorato in certa donzella 
della Dogaressa, essendo sul Solajo appresso le donne, 
faeesse cert' atto non conveniente, adeo die il Doge co- 
mando ch' e' fosse buttato giu dal Solajo. E cosi quegli 
scudieri del Doge lo spinsero giu di quel Solajo. Laonde 
a Ser Michele parve, che fossegli stata fatta troppo 
grande iguominia. E non considerando altramente il 
liue, ma sopra quella passione fornita la festa, e andati 
tutti via, quella notte egli andb, e sulla cadrega, dove 
sedeva il Doge nella Sala dell' Udienza (perche allora i 
Dogi non tenevauo panno di seta sopra la cadrega, ma 
'-edevano in una cadrega di legno) scrisse alcune parole 
disoneste del Doge e della Dogaressa, cioe: Marin Fa- 
hero dalla hella inoglie: Altri la node, ed egli la man- 
tiene. E la mattina furono vedute tali parole scritte. 
E parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria fu com- 
messa la cosa agli Awogadori del Comune con grande 
eflieacia. I quali Awogadori subito diedero taglia grande 
per venire iu chiaro della verita di chi avea scritto tal 
letlera. E tandem si seppe, che Michele Steno aveale 
scritte. E fu per li Quaranta prcso di ritenerlo : e ri- 
tenuto coufesso, che in quella passione d' essere stato 
*pinto giu dal Solajo, presente la sua amante, egli aveale 
scritte. Onde poi fu placitato nel detto Consiglio, e 
parve al Consiglio si per rispetto all" eta, come per la 
caldozza d'amore, di condannarlo a compiere due mesi 
in prigione serrato, e poi ch' e' fosse bandito di Venezia 
e dal distretto per un anno. Per la qual condennagione 
tan to piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
dogli che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazione della 
cosa, che ricercava la sua dignita del Ducato. E diceva, 
ch' eglino doveauo averlo fatto appiccare per la gola, o 
saltern bandirlo in pcrpctuo da Venezia. E perche 
(quando dee succedere un' effetto e necessario che vi 
concorra lacangioue a fare tal' effetto) eradestinato, che 
a Messer Marino Doge fosse tagliata la testa, percio oc- 
corse, che entrata la Ouaresima il giorno dopo che fu 
coudannato il detto Ser Michele Steno, un gentiluomo 
da Ca Barbaro, di natura collerico, andasse all' Arsenale, 
domandasse ccrte cose ai Padroni, ed era alia presenza 
de' Signori l'Ammiraglio dell' Arsenale. II quale intesa 
la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare. Quel gen- 
tiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammiraglio, e diedegli un 
puguo su un'occhio. E perche avea un'auello in dito, 
coll anello gli ruppe la pelle, e fece sangue. E l'Ammira- 
glio cosi battuto e insanguinato andb al Doge a lamen- 
Xarsi, acciocche il Doge faeesse fare gran punizione con- 
tra il detto da Ca Barbaro : Il Doge disse : Che vnoi che 
tifaccial Gnarda le ig?iominiose parolescritte di me, e 
il modo die stato punito quel ribaldo di Michele Steno, 
die le scrisse. E quale stimaliannoi Quaranta fatto 
della persona nostra? Laonde l'Ammiraglio gli disse: 
Messer lo Doge, se voivolete farvi Signore, e fare ta- 
gUare tutti questi hecchi gcntiluomini a pezzi, mi basta 
lanimo, dandomi voi ajuto, di farvi Signore di questa 
Terra. £ allora voi potrete castigare tutti costoro. In- 
teso questo, il Doge disse, Come si pub fare una simile 
cosa? E cosi entrarono in ragionamento. 

« II Doge mahdo a chiamarc Ser Bertuccio Faliero suo 



nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e entrarono 
in questa macchinazione. Ne si partirouo di li, che man- 
darono perFilippo Calendaro,uomo marittimo e di gran 
seguito, e per Bertuccio Israello, ingegnere e uomo astu- 
tissimo. E consigliatisi insieme diede ordine di chia- 
mare alcuni altri. E cosi per alcuni giorni la notte si 
riducevano insieme in Palazzo in casa del Doge. E chia- 
marono a parte a parte altri, videlicet Nicolo Fa- 
giuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolo 
dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo, e Stefano Trivisano. E 
ordino di fare sedici o diciassette Capi in diversi luoghi 
della Terra, i quali avessero cadaun di loro quarant'uo- 
miui provvigionati, preparati, non dicendo a' detti suoi 
quaranta quello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
stabilito si mostrasse di far quistione tra loro in diversi 
luoghi, acciocche il Doge faeesse sonare a San Marco le 
campane, le quali non si possono suonare, s' egli nol 
comanda. E al suono delle campane questi sedici o 
diciassette co' suoi uomini venissero a San Marco alle 
strade, che buttano in Piazza. E cosi i nobili e primarj 
cittadini, che venissero in Piazza, per sapere del romore 
cib ch'era, li tagliassero a pezzi. E seguito questo, che 
fosse chiamato per Signore Messer Marino Faliero Doge. 
E fermate le cose tra loro, stabilito fu, che questo do- 
vess' essere a' i5 d'Aprile del i355 iu giorno di Merco- 
ledi. La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra loro tanto 
segretamente, che mai ne pure se ne sospettb, non che 
se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor' Iddio, che ha 
sernpre ajutato questa gloriosissima citta, e cbe per le 
santimonie e giustizie sue mai non l'ha abbandonata, 
ispiro a un Beltramo Bergamasco, il quale fu messo 
Capo di quarant' uomini per uno de' detti congiurati 
(il quale intese qualche parola, sicche comprese l'cffeto, 
che doveva succedere, e il qual era di casa di Ser Nic- 
colo Lioni di Santo Stefano) di andare a di * * * * d'Aprile 
a casa del detto Ser Niccolo Lioni. E gli disse ogni 
cosa dell' ordin dato. II quale intese le cose, rimase 
come morto; e intese molte particolarita, il detto 
Beltramo il pregb che lo tenesse segreto, e giielo disse, 
acciocche il detto Ser Niccolo non si partisse di casa a di 
1 5, acciocche egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo par- 
tirsi, il fece ritenere a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in una ca- 
mera. Ed esso andb a casa di M. Giovanni Gradenigo 
Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava anch' egli a 
Santo Stefano; e dissegli la cosa. La quale paren- 
dogii, com'era, d'una grandissima importanza, tutti e 
due andarono a casa di Ser Marco Cornaro, che stava 
a San Felice. E dettogli il tutto, tutti e tre delibera- 
rono di venire a casa del detto Ser Niccolo Lioni, ed 
esaminare il detto Beltramo. E quello esaminato, in- 
tese le cose, il fecero stare serrato. E andarono tutti e tre 
a San Salvatore in sacristia, e maudorono i loro famigli 
a chiamare i Consiglieri; gli Awogadori, i Capi de' 
Dicci, e que' del Consiglio. E ridotti insieme dissero 
loro le cose. I quali rimasero morti. E deliberarono di 
mandare pel detto Beltramo, e fattolo venire cauta- 
mente, ed esaminatolo, e verificate le cose, ancorche ne 
sentissero gran passione, pure pensarono la provvisione. 
E mandarono pe' Capi de' Quaranta, pe' Signori di 
notte, pe Capi de' Sestieri, e pe Cinque della Pace. E 
ordiuato, ch' eglino co' loro uomini trovassero degli 
altri buoni uomini, e mandassero a casa de' capi de' 
congiurati, ut supra mettessero loro le mani addosso. 
E tolsero i detti le Maestrerie dell' Arsenale, acciocche i 
provvisionati de" congiurati non potessero offendcrli. 
E si ridussero in Palazzo verso la sera. Dove ridotti 



MARINO FALIERO. 



2bj 



fecero serrare le porte della corte del Palazzo. E man- 
darouo a ordinare al campanaro, die non sonasse le 
campane. E cosi fu eseguito, e messe le mani addosso 
a tutti i nominati di sopra, furono qui condotli al 
Palazzo. E vedendo il Consiglio de' Dieci, che il Doge 
era nella eospirazione, presero di eleggere venti de' 
primarj della Terra, di giunta al detto Consiglio a con- 
sigliare, nou perb che potcssero mettere pallotta. 

«I Consiglieri furono questi: Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, 
del Sestiero di San Marco ; Ser Almorb Veuiero da Santa 
Marina, del Sestiero di Castello; Ser Tommaso Viadro, 
del Sestiero di Caneregio ; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, del 
Sestiero di Santa Croce; Ser Pictro Trivisano, del Se- 
stiero di San Paolo, Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grande, del 
Sestiero d'Ossoduro. Gli Avvogadori del Cornune fu- 
rono Ser Zufredo Morosini, e Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e 
questi non ballottarono. Que' del Consiglio de' Dieci ; 
furono : Ser Giovanni Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, 
e Ser Micheletto Dolfino, Capi del detto Consiglio de' 
Dieci; Ser Luca da Legge, e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inqui- 
sitori del detto Consiglio : Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino 
Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto Trivisano 
da Sant' Angiolo. Questi elessero tra loro una Giunta, 
nella notte ridotti quasi sul romper del giorno, di vend 
nobili di Venezia de' migliori, de' piu. savj, e de' piu an- 
tichi, per consultare, non pero che mettessero pallot- 
tola. E non vi vollero alcuno da Ca Faliero. E cac- 
ciarono fuori del Consiglio Niccolb Faliero, e un' altro 
Niccolb Faliero da San Tommaso, per essere della ca- 
sata del Doge. E questa provigione di cbiamare i venti 
della Giunta fu molto commendata per tutta la Terra. 
Questi furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giusti- 
niani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser 
Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Conta- 
riui, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolb Volpe, Ser Gio- 
vanni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gra- 



deni 



g°, 



Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco So- 



ranzo, Ser Piinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser 
Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Belegao, Ser Niccolb 
Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Ja- 
copo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarinu E chiamati 
questi venti nel Consiglio de' Dieci, fu mandato per 
Messer Marino Faliero Doge, il quale andava pel Pa- 
lazzo con gran gente, gentiluomini, e altra buona gente, 
che non sapeano ancora come il fatto stava. In questo 
tempo fu condotto, preso, e legato, Bertuccio Israello, 
uno de' Capi del trattato per que' di Santa Croce, e an- 
cora fu preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, e 
Nicoletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uomini da mare, 
e d' altre condizioni. I quali furono esaminati, e trovata 
la verita del tradimento. A di 16 d'Aprile fu senten- 
ziato pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, cbe Filippo Calan- 
dario, e Bertucci Israello fossero appiccati alle colonne 
rosse del balconate del Palazzo, nelle quali sta a vedere 
il Doge la festa della Caccia. E cosi furono appiccati 
con spranghe in bocca. E nel giorno seguente' questi 
furono condannati, Piccolo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
Nicoletto Doro, Marco Geuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Ni- 
coletto Fedele figliuolo di Filippo Calendaro, Marco To- 
rello, detto Israello, Stefauo Trivisano, cambiatore di 
Santa Margherita, Antonio dalle Bende. Furono tutti 
presi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, e dipoi in diversi giorni 
a due a due, ed a uno a uno, per sentenza fatta nel detto 
Consiglio de' Dieci, furono appiccati per la gola alle co- 
lonne, continuando dalle rosse del Pallazzo, seguendo fin 
verso il Canale. E altri presi furono lasciati, perche 



sentiroao il fatto, ma non vi furono tal che fu dato loro 
ad intendere per questi capi, che venissero coll' arme, 
perprenderealcuni malfattori in servigio della Signoria, 
ne altro sapeano. Fu encora liberato Nicoletto Alberto, 
il Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e suo figliuolo. 
e molti altri, che non erano in colpa. 

E a di 1 6 d'Aprile, giorno di Venerdl, fu sentenziato 
del detto Consiglio de' Dieci, di tagliare la testa a Mes- 
ser Marino Faliero Doge sul pato della scala di pietra, 
dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagramento, quando nion- 
tano prima in Palazzo. E cosi serrato il Palazzo, la 
mattina seguente a ora di terza, fu tagliata la testa al 
detto Doge a di 1 7 d' Aprile. E prima la bcrretta fu 
tolta di testa al detto Doge, avanti che venisse giu da 11a 
scala. E compiuta la giustizia, pare che un Capo de' 
Dieci andasse alle Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza, 
e mostrasse la spada kisanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E 
stata fatta la gran giustizia del Tradilore. E aperta la 
porta, tutti entrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere il 
Doge, ch' era stato giustiziato. E' da sapere, che a fare 
la detta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni Sanudo il Consi- 
gliere, perche era andato a casa per difetto della persona, 
sicche furono quattordici soli, che ballottarono, cioe 
cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consiglio de' Dieci. E fu 
preso, che tutti i beni. del Doge fossero confiscati nel 
Comune, e cosi degli altri traditori. E fu conccduto 
al detto Doge pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, ch' egli po- 
tesse ordinare del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu 
preso, che tutti i Consiglieri, e Avvogadori del Comune, 
que' del Consiglio de' Dieci; e della Giunta, ch' erano 
stati a fare la detta sentenza del Doge, e d'altri, avessero 
licenza di portar' arme di di e di notte in Yenezia e da 
Grado fino a Gavarzere, ch' e sotto il Dogato, con due 
fanti in vita loro, stando i fanti con essi in casa al suo 
pane e al suo vino. E chi uon avesse fanti, potesse dar 
tal licenza a' suoi figliuoii ovvero fratelli, due pero e non 
piu. Eziandio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Noia j 
della Cancelleria, cioe della Corte Maggiore, che furono I 
a prendere le deposizioni e iuquisizioui, in perpetuo a 
loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicoletto di Loreno, I 
Steffanello, e Pietro de' Compostelli, Scrivani de' Si- { 
gnori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i traditori, c I 
tagliata la testa al Doge, rimase la Terra in gran riposo 
e quiete. E come in una cronica ho trovato, fu por- 
tato il corpo del Doge in una barea con otto doppieri 
a seppelire nella sua area a San Giovanni e Paolo, la 
quale al presente e in quell' andito per mezzo la Chic- 
suola di Sauta Maria della Pace, fatta fare pel Yescovo 
Gabriello di Bergamo, e un cassone di pietra con queste 
lettere: Hie jacet Dominus Marinus Faletro Dux. E 
nel gran Consiglio non gli e stato fatto alcun brieve, ma 
il luogo vacuo con lettere, che diconocosi: Hie est locus 
Marini Faletro, decapitati pro criminibus. E pare, che 
la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesa di Sant Apostolo, la 
qual era quella grande sul ponte. Tamen vedo il con- 
trario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i Falieri la ricu- 
perassero con danari dalla Chiesa. Ne voglio restar di 
scrivere alcuni, che volevano, che fosse messo nel suo 
breve, cioe: Marinus Faletro Dux. Temeritas me cepit. 
Panas lui, decapitatus pro criminibus. Altri vi fecero 
un distico assai degno al suo merito, il quale e questo, 
da cessere posto su la sua sepoltura: 



,; Dux Venetum jacet hie, patriam qui prodere tcnlans 
Sceptra, decus, ceasum, ptrdidit, aique caput." 



*&4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



« Non voglio rcstar di scrivere quello che ho letto iu 
uua cronica, cioe, che Marino Faliero trovandosi Po- 
desta e Capitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una pro- 
cessione, il vescovo stette troppo a far venire il Corpo 
di Cristo. 11 detto Faliero era di tanta superbia e ar- 
roganza, che diede un buffetto al prefato Vescovo, per 
modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. Perb fu permesso, 
che il Faliero perdette l'intelletto, e fece la mala tnorte, 
come ho scritto di sopra.» 

Cronica di Sannto — Muratori S. S. Rerum Italicarum 
— vol. xxii. 628 — 63q. 



II. 

MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 

On the eleventh day of September, in the year of our 
Lord i354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen to be 
tlie Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. He was 
Count of Valdemarino, in the Marches of Treviso, and 
a Knight and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as the 
election was completed, it was resolved in the Great 
Council, that a deputation of twelve should be dis- 
patched to Marino Faliero, the Duke, who was then on 
his way from Rome; for, when he was chosen, he was 
ambassador at the court of the Holy Father, at Rome, 
— tlie Holy Father himself held his court at Avignon. 
When Messer Marino Faliero the Duke was about to 
land in this citv, on the fifth day of October, i354, a 
thick haze came on, and darkened the air; and he was 
enforced to land on the place of Saint Mark, between 
the two columns on the spot where evil doers are put 
to death; and all thought that this was the worst of 
tokens. — Nor must 1 forget to write that which I have 
read in a chronicle. — When Messer Marino Faliero was 
podesta and Captain of Treviso, the bishop delayed 
coming in with the holy sacrament, on a day when a 
procession was to take place. Now the said Marino Fa- 
liero was so very proud and wrathful that he buffeted 
the bishop, and almost struck him to the ground. And 
therefore, Heaven allowed Marino Faliero to go out of 
his right senses, in order that he might bring himself to 
an evil death. 

W r hen this Duke had held the dukedom during nine 
months and six days, he being wicked and ambitious, 
sought to make himself lord of Venice, in the manner 
which I have read in an ancient chronicle. When the 
Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hunt 
tlie bull, the bull-hunt took place as usual; and accord- 
ing to tlie usage of those times, after the bull hunt had 
ended, they all proceeded unto the palace of the Duke, 
and assembled together in one of his halls ; and they 
disported themselves with the women. And until the 
first bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet was 
served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses there- 
of, provided Ire had a Duchess, and after the banquet 
they all returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Miche'e 
Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very yOung, but 
crafty and daring, and who loved one of the damsels of 
the Duchess. Ser Michele stood amongst the women 
upon the solajo; and he behaved indiscreetly, so that 
my Lord the Duke ordered that he should be kicked off 
the solajo; and the esquires of the Duke flung him 
down from the solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought 



that such an affront was beyond all bearing; and when 
the feast was over, and all other persons had left the 
palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words re- 
lating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the chair in 
which the Duke was used to sit; for in those days the 
Duke did not cover his chair with cloth of sendal, but 
he sat in a chair of wood. Ser Michele wrote thereon : 
— «Marin Fulier, the husband of the fair wife; otliers 
kiss her, bat lie keeps her.n In the morning the words 
were seen, and the matter was considered to be very 
scandalous ; and the Senate commanded the Avvogadori 
of the Commonwealth to proceed therein with the 
greatest diligence. A largesse of great amount was im- 
mediately proffered by the Avvogadori in order to dis- 
cover who had written these words. And at length it 
was known that Michele Steno had written them. It 
was resolved in the Council of Forty that he should be 
arrested ; and he then confessed, that in a fit bf vexa- 
tion and spite, occasioned by his being thrust off the 
solajd in the presence of his mistress, he had written 
the words. Therefore the Council debated thereon. 
And the Council took his youth into consideration, and 
that he was a lover, and therefore they adjudged that 
he should be kept in close confinement during two 
months, and that afterwards he should be banished from 
Venice and the state during one year. In consequence 
of this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
acted in such a manner as was required by the respect 
due to his ducal dignity; and he said that they ought 
to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
neck, or at least to be banished for life. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was to 
have his head cut off. And as it is necessary when any 
effect is to be brought about, that the cause of such ef- 
fect must happen, it therefore came to pass, that On the 
very day after sentence had been pronounced on Ser 
Michele Steno, being the first day of Lent, a gentleman 
of the house of Barbaro, a choleric gentleman, went 
to the arsenal and required certain things of the mas- 
ters of the galleys. This he did in the presence of the 
admiral of the arsenal, and he, bearing the request, 
answered, — « No, itcannot be done.» — High wordsarose 
between the gentleman and the admiral, and the gen- 
tleman struck him with his fist just above the eye; and 
as he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to com- 
plain, and with the intent of praying him to indict 
some heavy punishment upon the gentleman of Ca Bar- 
baro. — «\Vhat wouldst thou have me do for thee?» 
answered the Duke; — « think upon the shameful gibe 
which hath been written concerning me; and think on 
the manner in which they have punished that ribald 
Michele Steno, who wrote it; and see how the Council 
Of Forty respect our person. » — Upon this the admiral 
answered, — «My Lord Duke, if you would wish to make 
yourself a prince, and to cut all those cuckoldly gentle- 
men to pieces, I have the heart, if you do but help me, 
to make you prince of all this state ; and then you may 
punish them all.» — Hearing this, the Duke said, — «IIow 
can such a matter be brought about?" — and so they 
discoursed thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertucrio Faliero, 
who lived with him in the palace, and they communed 



MARINO FAL1ERO. 



285 



about this plot. And, without leaving the place, they 
sent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman of great repute, 
and for Bertuccio Israello, who was exceedingly wily and 
cunning. Then, taking counsel amongst themselves, 
they agreed to call in some others ; and so for several 
nights successively, they met with the Duke at home in 
his palace. And the following men were called in singly ; 
to wit ; — Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano 
Fagiano, Niccolo dalle Dende, Niccolo Biondo, and Ste- 
fano Trivisano. — It was concerted that sixteen or seven- 
teen leaders should be stationed in various parts of the 
city, each being at the head of forty men, armed and pre- 
pared ; but the followers were not to know their desti- 
nation. On the appointed day they were to make af- 
frays amongst themselves here and there, in order that 
the Duke might have a pretence for tolling the bells of 
San Marco ; these bells are never rung but by the order 
of the Duke. And at the sound of the bells, these six- 
teen or seventeen, with their followers, were to come to 
San Marco, through the streets which open upon the 
Piazza. And when the noble and leading citizens should 
come into the Piazza, to know the cause of the riot, then 
the conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; and this 
work being finished, my Lord Marino Faliero the Duke 
was to be proclaimed the Lord of Venice. Things having 
been thus settled, they agreed to fulfil their intent on 
Wednesday, the fifteenth day of April, in the year 1 355. 
So covertly did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of 
their machinations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo 
Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the plot to light 
in the following manner. This Beltramo, who belonged 
to Ser Niccolo Leoni, of Santo Stefano, had heard a word 
or two of what was to take place ; and so, in the before- 
mentioned month of April, he went to the house of the 
aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and told him all the parti- 
culars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, when he heard all 
these things, was struck dead, as it were, with affright. 
He heard all the particulars, and Beltramo prayed him 
to keep it all secret; and if he told Ser Niccolo, it was 
in order that Ser Niccolo might stop at home on the 
fifteenth of April, and thus save his life. Beltramo was 
going, but Ser Niccolo ordered his servants to lay hands 
upon him and lock him up. Ser Niccolo then went to 
the house of Messer Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who 
afterwards became Duke, and who also lived at Santo 
Stefano, and told him all. The matter seemed to him 
to be of the very greatest importance, as indeed it was; 
and they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, 
who lived at San Felice; and, having spoken with him, 
they all three then determined to go back to the house 
of Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo; and 
having questioned him, and heard all that he had to 
say, they left him in confinement. And then they all 
three went into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent 
their men to summon the Councillors, the Avvogadori, 
the Capi de' Died, and those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was told 
to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with 
affright. They determined to send for Beltramo. He 
was brought in before them. They examined him, and 
ascertained that the matter was true; and, although 
they were exceedingly troubled, yet they determined 



upon their measures. And they sent for the Capi de' 
Ouaranta, the Signori di Nottc, the Capi de' Sestieri, and 
the Cinque della Pace; and they were ordered to asso- 
ciate to their men other good men and true, who were 
to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the con- 
spiracy and secure them. And they secured the fore- 
men of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators might 
not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assembled in 
the palace. When they were assembled in the palace, 
they caused the gates of the quadrangle of the palace 
to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of the bell- 
tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. All this 
was carried into effect. The before mentioned conspi- 
rators were secured, and they were brought to the pa- 
lace; and as the Council of Ten saw that the Duke was 
in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the leading 
men of the state should be associated to them, for the 
purpose of consultation and deliberation, but that they 
should not be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following : Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Almoro 
Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello; 
Ser Tommaso Yiadro, of the Sestiero of Caneregio ; Ser 
Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of Santa Croce; Ser 
Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero of San Paolo ; Ser Pan- 
talione Barbo il Grande, of the Sestiero of Ossoduro. 
The Avvogadori of the Commonwealth were Zufredo 
Morosini, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo; and these did not 
ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser Giovanni 
Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto 
Dolfino, the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. Ser 
Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisitors of 
the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco Polani, Ser Ma- 
rino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, and Ser Nicoletto 
Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
chose a junto of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
amongst the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
They were to give counsel, but not to ballot. And they 
would not admit any one of Ca Faliero. And Niccolo 
Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San Tommaso, 
were expelled from the Council, because they belonged 
to the family of the Doge. And this resolution of 
creating the junta of twenty was much praised through- 
out the state. The following were the members of the 
junta of twenty : — Ser Marco Giustiniani, Procuratore, 
Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lionardo Giusti- 
niani, Procuratore, Ser Andrea Contarini, Sere Simone 
Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovanni Loredano, Ser 
Marco Dicdo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser Andrea Cor- 
naro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, Ser Binieri da Mosto, 
Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser Marino Morosini, Ser Stefano 
Delegno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco 
Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadiuo, Ser Giovanni Foscarini. 

These twenty were accordingly called in to the 
Council of Ten; and they sent for my Lord Marino 
Faliero the Duke ; and my Lord Marino was then con- 
sorting in the palace with people of great estate, gen- 
tlemen, and other good men, none of whom knew yet 
how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one of 
the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa 
Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought before the 
Council. Zanelio del Brin, Nicoletto di Bosa, Nicoletto 
Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were also taken together, 



286 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



with several seamen, and people of various ranks. 
These were examined, and the truth of the plot was 
ascertained. 

On the sixteenth of April, judgment was given in the 
Council of Ten, that Filippo Galendaro and Bertuccio 
Israello should be hanged upon the red pillars of the 
balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
look at the bull-hunt : and they were hanged with gags 
in their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned : — Nic- 
colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco 
Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the son of 
Filippo Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Israello, Ste- 
fano Trivisano, the money-changer of Santa Margherita, 
and Antonio dalle Bende. These were all taken at 
Chiozza, for they were endeavouring to escape. After- 
wards, by virtue of the sentence which was passed upon 
them in the Council of Ten, they were hanged on suc- 
cessive days, some singly and some in couples, upon the 
columns of the palace, beginning from the red columns, 
and so going onwards towards the canal. And other 
prisoners were discharged, because, although they had 
been involved in the conspiracy, yet they had not as- 
sisted in it : for they were given to understand by some 
of the heads of the plot, that they were to come armed 
and prepared for the service of the state, and in order 
to secure certain criminals, and they knew nothing else. 
Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and Bartolommeo Ci- 
riuola and his son, and several others, who were not 
guilty, were discharged. 

On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment was 
also given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that my 
Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his head 
cut off, and that the execution should be done on the 
landing-place of the stone staircase, where the Dukes 
take their oath when they first enter the palace. On 
the following day, the seventeenth of April, the doors 
of the palace being shut, the Duke had his head cut off, 
about the hour of noon. And the cap of estate was 
taken from the Duke's head before he came down stairs. 
When the execution was over, it is said that one of the 
Council of Ten went to the columns of the palace over 
against the place of St Mark, and that he showed the 
bloody sword unto the people, crying out with a loud 
voice — « The terrible doom hath fallen upon the trai- 
tor!" — and the doors were opened, and the people all 
rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke who had been 
beheaded. 

It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sauudo, the 
councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence 
was pronounced ; because he was unwell and remained 
at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; that is to 
say, five councillors, and nine of the Council of Ten. 
And it was adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of 
the Duke, as well as of the other traitors, should be 
forfeited to the state. And, as a grace to the Duke, it 
was resolved in the Council of Ten, that he should be 
allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats out of his 
own property. And it was resolved, that all the coun- 
cillors and all the Avvogadori of the commonwealth, 
those of the Council of Ten, and the members of the 
junta who had assisted in passing sentence on the Duke 
and the other traitors, should have the privilege of car- 
rying arms both by day and by night in Venice, and 
from Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to be 
allowed two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid foot- 



men living and boarding with them in their own houses. 
And he who did not keep two footmen might transfer 
the privilege to his sons or his brothers; but only to 
two. Permission of carrying arms was also granted to 
the four Notaries of the Chancery, that is to say, of the 
Supreme Court, who took the depositions; and they 
were Amedio, Nicoletto di Lorino, Steffanello, and 
Pietro de Compostelli, the secretaries of the Signori di 
Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke had 
had his head cut off, the state remained in great tran- 
quillity and peace. And, as I have read in a chronicle, 
the corpse of the Duke was removed in a barge, with 
eight torches, to his tomb in the church of San Giovan- 
ni e Paolo, where it was buried. The tomb is now in 
that aisle in the middle of the little church of Santa 
Maria della Pace, which was built by Bishop Gabriel of 
Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these words en- 
graved thereon : « Heicjacet Dominus Marinus Faletro 
Dux.» — And they did not paint his portrait in the hall 
of the Great Council : — But in the place where it ought 
to have been, you see these words : — « Hie est locus 
Marini Faletro decapitati pro criminibusv — and it is 
thought that his house was granted to the church of 
Sant' Apostolo ; it was that great one near the bridge. 
Yet this could not be the case, or else the family bought 
it back from the church; for it still belongs to Ca Fa- 
liero. I must not refrain from noting, that some wished 
to write the following words in the place where his 
portrait ought to have been, as aforesaid : — « Marinas 
Faletro Dux, temeritas me cepit, pcenas lui, decapitatus 
pro crbninibus.Yi — Others, also, indited a couplet, worthy 
of being inscribed upon his tomb. 

u Dux Venetum jacet Lie, patriam qui prodere tentans, 
Sceptra, decus, censura, perdidit, atque caput." 
[I am obliged for litis excellent translation of the old chronicle to 
MrF. Cohen, towhom the reader will nod himself indebted for a ver- 
sion that I could not myself, though after many years' intercourse 
with Italian, have given by any means so purely and so faithfully.] 



III. 

«Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette un 
vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della repubblica, 
ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d' uopo a lui, ed 
alia patria : egli e Marino Faliero personnaggio a me 
noto per antica dimestichezza. Falsa era 1' opinione in- 
torno a lui, giacche egli si mostro fornito piu di coraggio 
che di senno. Non pago della prima dignita, entro con 
sinistro piede nel pubblico Palazzo : imperciocche 
questo Doge dei Veneti, magistrato sacro in tutti i se- 
coli, che dagli antichi fu sempre venerato qual nume in 
quella citta, 1' altri jeri fu decollato nel vestibolo dell' 
istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause 
di un tale evento, se cosi vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
fosse il grido. Nessuno perb lo scusa, tutti affermano, 
che egli abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa nell' ordine 
della repubblica a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
desiderava egli di piu? Io son d'avviso, che egli abbia 
ottenuto eio, che non si concedette a nessun altro : 
mentre adempiva gli ufficj di legato presso il Pontefice, 
e sulle rive del Bodano trattava la pace, che io prima 
di lui avevo indarno tentato di conchiudere, gli fu con- 
ferito 1' onore del Ducato, che ne chiedeva, ne s' aspet- 
tava. Tomato in patria, penso a quello, cui nessuno 
non pose mente giammai, e soffri quello che a niuno 
accade mai di soffrire : giacche in quel luogo eclcber- 



MARINO FALIERO. 



28 



rimo, e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, die 
io vidi, ove i suoi antenati avevano ricevuti grandissimi 
onori in mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egli fu trasci- 
nato in modo servile, e spogliato delle insegne ducali, 
perdette la testa, e macchio col proprio sangue le soglie 
del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le scale marmoree ren- 
dutespesse volte illustri o dalle solenni festivita, o dalle 
ostili spoglie. Ho notato il luogo, ora noto il tempo : 
e I" anno del Natale di Cristo i355, fu il giorno 18 d' A- 
prile. Si alto e il grido sparso, che se alcnno esaminera 
la disciplina, e le costnmanze di qnella citta, e qnanto 
mutamento di cose venga minacciato dalla morte di un 
sol uomo (cpiantunque molti altri, come narrano, es- 
sendo complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o lo 
aspettano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grande avvenne 
ai nostri tempi nell' Italia. Tu forse qui attendi il mio 
giudizio; assolvo il popolo, se credere alia fama, benche 
abbia potuto e castigare piu mitamente, e con maggior 
dolcezza vendicare il suo dolore: ma non cosi facil- 
mente, si modera un' ira giusta insieme, e grande in 
un numeroso popolo principalmente, nel quale il pre- 
cipitoso, ed instabile volgo aguzza gli stimoli dell' ira- 
condia con rapidi, e sconsigliati clamori. Compatisco, 
e nell' istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice uomo, 
il quale adorno di un' insolito onore, non so che cosa 
si volesse negli estremi anni della sua vita : la cala- 
mita di lui diviene sempre piu grave, perche dalla sen- 
tenza contra di esso promulgata apparira, che egli fu 
non solo misero, ma insano, e demente, e che con vane 
arti si usurpb per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che questo 
« un esempio posto innanzi ai loro occhi, quale specchio 
nel quale veggano di essere non Signori, ma Duci, anzi 
nemmeno Duci, ma onorati servi della Repubblica. 
Tu sta sano ; e giaeche fluttuano le publicche cose, 
sforziamoci di governar modestissimamente i privati 
nostri affari.» 

Levati. Viaggi di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin epistles 
of Petrarch proves — 

istly, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend of 
Petrarch's: « anticadimestichezza,» old intimacy, is the 
phrase of the poet. 

2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more cou- 
rage than conduct, « piu di coraggio che di senno.» 

3dly, That there was some jealousy on the part of 
Petrarch; for he says that Marino Faliero -was treating 
of the peace which he himself had « vainly attempted 
to conclude. » 

4-thly, That the honour of the dukedom was conferred 
upon him, which he neither sought nor expected, «che 
he chiedeva nes' aspettava,» and which had never been 
granted to any other in like circumstances, « cio che 
non si concedette a nessun altro;» proof of the high 
esteem in which he must have been held. 

Stilly, That he had a reputation for wisdoin, only 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, « si surpo 
per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. » — «He had 
usurped for so many years a false fame of wisdom ;» 
rather a difficult task, I should think. People are ge- 
nerally found out before eighty years of age, at least in 
a republic. 

From these and the other historical notes which I 
have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Faliero 
possessed many of the qualities, but not the success of 



a bero: and that his passions were too violent. The 
paltry and ignorant account of Dr Moore falls to the 
ground. Petrarch says, « that there had been no 
greater event in his times» (our times literally), « nostri 
tempi,» in Italy. He also differs from the historian in 
saying that Faliero was « on the banks of the Rhone,* 
instead of at Piome, when elected; the other accounts 
say, that the deputation of the Venetian senate met 
him at Piavenna. How this may have been, it is not 
for me to decide, and is of no great importance. Had 
the man succeeded, he would have changed the face of 
Venice, and perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they 
both? 



IV. 

Extrait de louvrage — Eistoire de la Republique de 
Venise, par P. Barn, de VAcademie franeaise. 
torn. v. liv. xxxv. p. 95, etc. Edition de Paris, 
MDGCGXIX. 

« A ces attaques si frequentes que le gouvernement 
dirigeait centre le clerge, aces luttes etablies entre les 
differents corps constitues, a ces entreprises de la masse 
de la noblesse contre les de'positaires du pouvoir, a 
toutes ces propositions d'innovation qui se terminaient 
toujours par des coups d'etat; il faut ajouter une autre 
cause, non moins propre a propager le mepris des an- 
ciennes doctrines, e'etait Vexces de la corruption. 

« Gette liberte de moeurs qu'on avait long-temps van- 
tee comme le charme principal de la soeiete de Venise 
etail devenue un desordre scandaleux ; le lien du mariage 
etait moins sacre dans ce pays catbolique que dans ceux 
ou les lois civiles et religieuses permettent de le dis- 
soudre. Faute de pouvoir rompre le contrat, on sup- 
posait qu'il n'avait jamais existe; et les moyens de nul- 
lite, allegues avec impudeur par les epoux, etaient 
admis avec la meme facilite par des magistrats et par 
des pretres egalement corrompus. Ces divorces colores 
d'un autre nom devinrent si frequents, que 1'acte le plus 
important de la socie'te civilese trouva de la competence 
d'un tribunal d'exception, et que ce fut a la police de 
reprimer le scandale. Le conseil des dix ordonna, en 
1782, que toute femme qui intenterait une demande en 
dissolution de mariage serait obligee d'en attendre le 
jugement dans un couvent que le tribunal designerait*. 
Bientot apres il evoqua devant lui toutes les causes de 
cette nature 2 . Cet empietement sur la juridiction 
ecclcsiastique ay ant occasione des reclamations de la 
part de la cour de Rome, le conseil se reserva le droit 
de debouter les epoux de leur demande , et consentit a 
la renvoyer devant rofficialite, toutes les fois qu'il ne 
l'aurait pas rejetee 3 . 

« II y eut un moment 011 sans doute le renversement 
des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
mestiques, determinerent le gouvernement a s'ecarter 
des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la liberte de moeurs 
qu'il permettait a ses sujets: on chassa de Venise toutes 
les courtisanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisait pas pour 
ramener aux bonnes moeurs toute une population elevee 
dans la plus honteuse licence. Le desordre penetra 
dans 1'interieur des families, dans les cloitres,- et Ton se 

1 Correspondence de M. Scblick, charge d'affaires de France ; de- 
pe'che du 24 aoiit 17S2. 

2 Ibid. Depe'chedu3i aoiit. 

3 Ibid. Depeche du 3 septembre ij85. 



2 88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



out oblige de rappelcr, d'indemniser merae', des femrnes 
qui surprenaicnt quclquefois d'importants secrets, et 
qu'ou pouvait employer utilement a ruiuer deshommes 
que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. Depuis, 
la licence est toujours allee croissant ; et Ton a vu non 
seulement des meres trafiquer de la virginite de leurs 
filles, mais la vendre par un contrat dont 1'authenticite 
etait garantie par la signature dun officier public, et 
{'execution mise sous la protection des lois. 2 

« Lcs parloirs des couvents ou etaient renfermees les 
filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoique la 
police y entretint soigneusement un grand nombre de 
surveillans, etaient les seuls points de reunion de la so- 
ciete de Venise, et dans ces deux endroits si divers on 
etait egalement fibre. La musique, les collations, la 
#alanterie, n'etaient pas plus interdites dans les parloirs 
que dans les casins. II y avait un grand nombre de 
casins destines aux reunions publiques, ou le jeu etait 
la principale occupation de la societe. Cetait un sin- 
gulier spectacle de voir autour d'une table des personnes 
des deux sexes en masque, et de graves personnages en 
robe de magistrature, implorant le hasard, passant des 
angoisses du desespoir aux illusions de 1'esperance, et 
cela sans proferer une parole. 

« Les riches avaient des casins particuliers, mais ils 
y vivaient avec mystere; leurs femmes delaissees trou- 
vaient un de.dommagement dans la liberte dont elles 
jouissaient : la corruption des mceurs les avait privees 
de tout leur empire; on vient de parcourir toute l'his- 
toire de Venise, et on ne les a pas vues une seule fois 
exercer la moindre influence." 



Extract from the History of the Republic of Venice, by 

P. Darn, Member of the French Academy, vol. v. 

b. xxxv. p. 95, etc. Paris Edit. 1819. 

« To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
government against the clergy, — to the continual 
struggles between the different constituted bodies, — to 
those enterprises carried on by the mass of the nobles 
against the depositaries of power, to all those projects 
of innovation, which always ended by a stroke of state 
policy, — we must add a cause not less fitted to spread 
contempt for ancient doctrines; this ivas the excess of 
corruption. 

«That freedom of manners which had been long 
boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian society, 
had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness ; the tie 
of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic country, 
than among those nations where the laws and religion 
admit of its being dissolved. Because they could not 
break the contract, they feigned that it had not existed; 
and the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
married pair, was admitted with equal facility bypriests 
and magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, veiled 
.under another name, became so frequent, that the most 
important act of civil society was discovered to be ame- 
nable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain the 
open scandal of such proceedings became the office of 
.the police. In 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, that 

1 Le decret de rappel les de"signait sous le nom de nostre beneme- 
rite meretrici. On leur assigna un fonds et des maisons appelees Case 
Tampans, d'oii vient la denomination injurieuse de Carampane. 

2 Mayer, Description de Venise, torn, ii, et M. Archenholtz, Tableau 
de CItalie, torn, i, chap. 2. 



every woman who should sue for a dissolution of her 
marriage should be compelled to await the decision of 
the judges in some convent, to be named by the court.' 
Soon afterwards the same council summoned all causes 
of that nature before itself. 2 This infringement on 
ecclesiastical jurisdiction having occasioned some re- 
monstrance from B.ome, the council retained only the 
right of rejecting the petition of the married persons, 
and consented to refer such causes to the Holy Office 
as it should not previously have rejected. 3 

«There was a moment in which, doubtless, the de- 
struction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the do- 
mestic discord occasioned by these abuses, determined 
the government to depart from its established maxims 
concerning the freedom of manners allowed the subject. 
All the courtezans were banished from Venice, but their 
absence was not enough to reclaim and bring back 
good morals to a whole people brought up in the most 
scandalous licentiousness. Depravity reached the very 
bosoms of private families, and even into the cloister; 
and they found themselves obliged to recal, and even 
to indemnify 4 women, who sometimes gained posses- 
sion of important secrets, and who might be usefully 
employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes might 
have rendered them dangerous. Since that time licen- 
tiousness has gone on increasing; and we have seen mo- 
thers, not only selling the innocence of their daughters, 
but selling it by a contract, authenticated by the sig- 
nature of a public officer, and the performance of 
which was secured by the protection of the laws. 5 

« The parlours of the convents of noble ladies, and 
the houses of the courtesans, though the police carefully 
kept up a number of spies about them, were the only 
assemblies for society in Venice ; and in these two places, 
so different from, each other, there was equal freedom. 
Music, collations, gallantry, were not more forbidden in 
the parlours than at the casinos. There were a number 
of casinos for the purpose of public assemblies, where 
gaming was the principal pursuit of the company. It 
was a strange sight to see persons of either sex, masked, 
or grave personages in their magisterial robes, round a 
table, invoking chance, and giving way at one instant 
to the agonies of despair, at the next to the illusions of 
hope, and that without uttering a single word. 

« The rich had private casinos, but they lived incog- 
nito in them; and the wives whom they abandoned 
found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. The 
corruption of morals had deprived them of their em- 
pire. We have just reviewed the whole history of Ve- 
nice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
slightest influence.)) 

From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under the barbarians, there are some honourable indi- 
vidual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the last, and, 
alas! posthumous son of the marriage of the Doges with 
the Adriatic, who fought his frigate with far greater 
gallantry than any of his French coadjutors in the me- 

1 Correspondence of Mr Schlick, French charge d'affaires. Des- 
patch of 24th August, 1782. 

2 Ibid. Despatch, 3ist August. 

3 Ibid. Despatch, 3d September, 1785. 

4 The decree for their recall designates them as nostre benemerite 
meretrici. A fund and some houses called Case rampane were as- 
signed to them : hence the opprobrious appellation of Carampane. 

5 Mayer, Description of Venice, vol. ii, and M. Archenholtz, Picture 
of Italy, vol. i, chap. 2. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



289 



morable action off Lissa. I came home in the squadron 
•with the prizes in 18 1 1, and recollect to have heard Sir 
William Hoste, and the other officers engaged in that 
glorious conflict, speak in the highest terms of Pasqua- 
ligo's behaviour. There is the Abbate Morelli. There 
is Alvise Oueriui, who, after a long and honourable 
diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the -wrongs 
of his country in the pursuits of literature, with his 
nephew, Vittor Benzon, the son of the celebrated beauty, 
the heroine of « La Biondina in Goudoletta.» There arc 
the patrician poet JMorosini, and the poet Lamberti,the 
author of the « Biondina, » etc. and many other estima- 
ble productions ; and, not least in an Englishman's esti- 
mation, Madam Michelli, the translator of Shakspeare. 
There are the young Dandolo, and the improvvisatore 
Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accomplished son of 
an accomplished mother. There is Aglietti, and, -were 
there nothing else, there is the immortality of Canova. 
Cicognara, 3Iustoxithi, Bucati, etc., etc. I do not reck- 
on, because the one is a Greek, and the others were 
born at least a hundred miles off, which, throughout 
Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner, at least a stranger 
(forestiere). 



VI. 

Extrait de louvrage — Histoire litteraire dltalie, par 
P. L. Ginguene. torn. ix, chap, xxxvi, p. i44- Edition 
de Paris, MDCCCXIX. 

« \l v a une prediction fort singuliere sur Venise : " Si 
tu ne changes pas,' dit-elle a cette republique altiere, ' ta 
liberte, qui deja s'enfuit, ne comptera pas un siecle apres 
la millieme annee.' 

« En faisant remonter 1'epoque de la liberte Veni- 
tienne jusqua letablissement du gouvernement sousle- 
quel la republique a fleuri, on trouvera que lelectiou 
du premier Doge datede 697, et si Ton y ajoute un siecle 
apres mille, c'est-a-dire ouze cents ans, on trouvera 
encore que le sens de la prediction est littcralement 
celui-ci : 'Ta liberte ne comptera pas jusqua l'an 1797.' 
Rappelez-vous maintenant que Yenise a cesse d'etre 
libre en l'an cinq de la Republique francaise, ou en 
1796; vous verrez qu'il n'y eut jamais de prediction plus 
precise et plus ponctuellement suivie de l'effet. Vous 
noterez done comme tres remarquables ces trois vers 
de l'Alamanni,adresses a Yenise, que persontiepourtant 
n'a remarques: 

' Se non cangi pensier, l'un secol solo 

Non contera sopra '1 millesimo anno 

Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Bien des propheties ont passe pour telles, et bien des 

gens ont ete appele's prophetes a meilleur marche.» 



VII. 

Extract from the Literary History of Italy, by P. L. 

Guingnene, vol. ix, p. 144. Paris Edit. 18 19. 

« There is one very singular prophecy concerning 
Venice : 'If thou dost not change,' it says to that proud 
republic, ' thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will 
not reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 

« If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to 
the establishment of the government under which the 
republic flourished, we shall find that the date of the 
election of the first Doge is 697 ; and if we add one cen- 
tury to a thousand, that is, eleven hundred years, we 
shall find the sense of the prediction to be literally this: 



'Thy liberty will not last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice 
ceased to be free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the 
French republic ; and you w ill perceive that there never 
was prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
by the event. You will, therefore, note as very remark, 
able the three lines of Alamanni, addressed to Venice 
which, however, no one has pointed out: 

'Se non cangi pensier, l'un secol solo 
Non contera sopra '1 millesimo anno 
Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.* 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men 
have been called prophets for much less.» 

If ihe Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the above, made 
by Alamanni two hundred and seventy years ago. 



The author of « Sketches Descriptive of Italy,» etc. 
one of the hundred tours lately published, is extremely 
anxious to disclaim a possible charge of plagiarism 
from «Childe Harold » and « Beppo.» He adds, that 
still less could this presumed coincidence arise from 
« my conversation, « as he had repeatedly declined an 
introduction to me ivhile in Italy. 

Who this person may be I know not, but he must 
have been deceived by all or any of those who « repeat- 
edly offered to introduce » him, as I have invariably 
refused to receive any English with whom I was not 
previously acquainted, even when they had letters from 
England. If the whole assertion is not an invention, 1 
request this person not to sit down with the notion that 
he could have been introduced, since there has been 
nothing I have so carefully avoided as any kind of in- 
tercourse with his countrymen, excepting the very few 
who Avere a considerable time resident in Venice, or 
had been of my previous acquaintance. Whoever made 
him any such offer Avas possessed of impudence equal 
to that of making such an assertion without having had I 
it. The fact is, that I hold in utter abhorrence any 
contact Avith the travelling English, as my friend the 
Consul General Hoppner, and the Countess Benzoni (in 
Avhose house the Conversazione mostly frequented by 
them is held), could amply testify, were it Avorth Avhile. 
I Avas persecuted by these tourists even to my riding- 
ground at Lido, and reduced to the most disagreeable 
circuits to avoid them. At Madame Benzoni's I repeat- | 
edly refused to he introduced to them ; — of a thousand 
such presentations pressed upon me, I accepted two, 
and both were to Irish women. 

I should hardly have descended to speak of such 
trifles publicly, if the impudence of this «sketcher» had 
not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous and 
gratuitously impertinent assertion; — so meant to be, for 
what could it import to the reader to be told that the 
author «had repeatedly declined an introduction," even 
had it been true, which, for the reasons I have above 
given, is scarcely possible? Except Lords Lansdown, 
Jersey, and Lauderdale; Messrs Scott, Hammond, Sir 
Humphry Davy, the late M. LeAvis, W. Bankes, Mr Hopp- 
ner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr 
Joy, and Mr Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have ex- 
changed a word with another Englishman since I left 
their country; and almost all these I had known before. 
The others — and God knoAvs there Avere some hundreds 
— who bored me with letters or visits, I refused to have 
any communication with, and shall be proud and hap- 
py Avhen that wish becomes mutual. 

3 7 



2 9 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



gatiranapaluia ; 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY 



PREFACE. 

In publishing the Tragedies of Sardanapalus, and of 
The Two Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were 
not composed with the most remote view to the stage. 

On the attempt made by the managers in a former 
instance, the public opinion has been already expressed. 

With regard to my own private feelings, as it seems 
that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothing. 

For the historical foundation of the compositions in 
question, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The author has in one instance attempted to pre- 
serve, and in the other to approach the « unities ;» con- 
ceiving that, with any very distant departure from them, 
there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware 
of the unpopularity of this notion in present English 
literature; but it is not a system of his own, being 
merely an opinion which, not very long ago, was the 
law of literature throughout the world, and is still 
so in the more civilised parts of it. But « Nous avons 
change tout cela,» and are reaping the advantages of 
the change. The writer is far from conceiving that any 
thing he can adduce by personal precept or example 
can at all approach his regular, or even irregular pre- 
decessors: he is merely giving a reason why he preferred 
the more regular formation of a structure, however 
feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules what- 
soever. Where he has failed, the failure is in the ar- 
chitect, — and not in the art. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Siculus ; reducing it, however, to 
such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
approach the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion 
to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden conspi- 
racy, instead of the long war of the history. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Sardanapalus, King of Nineveh and Assyria, etc. 

Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 

Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 

Salemenes, the King's Brother-in-law. 

Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 

Pania. 

Zames. 

Sfero. 

Balea. 

WOMEN. 
Zarina, the Queen. 
Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and the favourite of 

Sardanapalus. 
Women composing the Harem o/"Sar DANAPALUS,G!*ar<is, 
Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, etc., etc. 



Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Palace. 

salemenes (solus). 

He hath wrong'd his queen, but still he is her lord; 

He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother; 

He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 

And I must be his friend as well as subject : 

He must not perish thus. I will not see 

The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 

Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 

Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale : 

He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 

There is a careless courage, which corruption 

Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 

Represt by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 

Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 

If born a peasant, he had been a' man 

To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire born, 

He will bequeath none; nothing but a name, 

Which his sons will not prize in heritage: 

Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 

His sloth and shame, by only being that 

Which he should be, as easily as the thing 

He should not be and is. Were it less toil 

To sway his nations than consume his life? 

To head an army than to rule a harem ? 

He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 

And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not 

Health like the chase, nor glory like the war : 

He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him, short of thunder. Hark ! the lute 
The lyre, the timbrel; the lascivious tinkiings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel; 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crowu'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by, to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odours of the perfumed trains, 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
Who are his comrades and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. — 
He comes ! Shall I await him? yes, and front him, 
And tell him what all good men tell each other, 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



2QI 



SCENE II. 
Enter Sardanapalus, effeminately dressed, his Head 
crovmed with Flowers, and his Robe negligently flow- 
ing, attended by a Train of Women and young 
Slaves. 

sardanapalus (speaking to some of his attendants). 
Let the pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there; see nought wanting, 
And bid the {'.alley be prepared. There is 
A cooliug breeze which crisps the broad clear river: 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We '11 meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs. 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time; 
And thou, my own Ionian, Myrrha, chuse, 
Wilt thou along with them or me? 

MYRRHA. 

My lord 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My lord! my life, why answerest thou so coldly! 

It is the curse of kings to be so answered. 

Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — sav, wouldst thou 

Accompany our guests, or charm away 

The moments from me? 

MYRRHA. 

The king's choice is mine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I pray thee say not so: my chiefest joy 

Is to contribute to thine every wish. 

I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 

Lest it should clash with thine; for thou art still 

Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

MYRRHA. 

I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine; yet 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet! what yet? 
Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

MYRRHA. 

I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council; it were better I retire. - 

salemenes (comes forward, and says). 
The Ionian slave says well; let her retire. 

sardanapalus. 
Who answers? How now, brother? 

SALEMENES. 

The queens brother, 
And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

sardanapalus (addressing his train). 
As I have said, let all dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[The court retiring. 
(To Myrrha, ivho is going.) 
Myrrha ! I thought thou wouldst remain. 

MYRRHA. 

Great king, 
Thou didst not say so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But thou lookedst it; 
I know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 



MYRRHA. 

Sire! your brother 

SALEMENES. 

His consort's brother, minion of Ionia! 
How darest thou name me and not blush? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not blush! 
Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson 
Like to the dyiug day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness, 
Which will not see it. What ! in tears, my Myrrha? 

SALEMENES. ^ 

Let them flow on; she weeps for more than one, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

SALEMENES. 

Curse not thyself — millions do that already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou dost forget thee: make me not remember 
I am a monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Would thou couldst! 

MYRRHA. 

My sovereign, 
I pray, and thou too, prince, permit my absence. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 

Thy gentle spirit, go; but recollect 

That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 

An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha. 

SALEMENES. 

It may be, 
Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Brother, 
I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this; yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

SALEMENES. 

'T is beyond 
That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
Which I would urge thee. Oh that I could rouse thee ! 
Though 't were against myself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

By the god Baal ! 
The man would make me tyrant. 

SALEMENES. 

So thou art. 
Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice— 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
AYhose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power, 
And those who should sustain it; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal: 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 



2Q2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, -what makes thee the mouth-piece of the people ? 

SALEMENES. 

Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
Fn more than words; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What 's that ? 

SALEMENES. 

To thee an unknown word. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet speak it; 
I love to learn. 

SALEMENES. 

Virtue. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not know the word ' 
' Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 

Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet : 
' I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

SALEMENES. 

j To change the irksome theme, then, hear of vice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I From whom? 

SALEMENES. 

Evenfromthe winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Come, I 'm indulgent as thou knowest, patient 
Asthouhast often proved — speak out, what moves thee? 

SALEMENES. 

Thy peril. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Say on. 

SALEMENES. 

Thus, then : all the nations, 
For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Gainst me / What would the slaves ? 

SALEMENES. 

A king. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And what 
Am I then? 

SALEMENES. 

Ill their eyes a nothing; but 
In mine a man who might be something still. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The railing drunkards! why, what would they have? 
j Have they not peace and plenty? 

SALEMENES. 

Of the hist. 
More than is glorious; of the last far less 
Than the king recks of. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Whose then is the crime. 
But the false satraps, who provide no better? 

SALEMENES. 

And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 't is but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 



Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril ! 
For what? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
Which the Chaldeans read! the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes. 
And lead them forth to glory. 

SALEMENES. 

Wherefore not? 
Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

T is most true. And how return' cl? 

SALEMENES. 

Why, like a man — a hero; baffled, but 

Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 

Good her retreat to Bactria. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And how many 
Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

SALEMENES. 

Our annals say not. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

Then I will say for them — 
That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
And wolves, and men — the fiercest of the three — 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

SALEMENES. 

All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou miyhtst sway. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I sway them — 
She but subdued them. 

SALEMENES. 

It may be, ere long, 
That they will need her sword more than your sceptre. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 

I 've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 

He was a god, that is, a Grecian god, 

An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 

Who conquer' d this same golden realm of Ind 

Thou pratest of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

SALEMENES. 

I have heard of such a man ; and thou perceivest 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And in his godship I will honour him — 

Not much as man. What, ho ! my cupbearer! 

SALEMENES. 

What means the king? 



SARDANAPALUS. 



2 9 3 



SARDANAPALUS. 

To worship your new god 
And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 

SARDANAPALUS (addressing tlte Cupbearer). 
Dring me the golden goblet thick with j;ems, 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

SAI HME.VES. 

Is this moment 
A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-off revels? 

He-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 

SARDaxapalus [taking the cup from him). 
Noble kinsman, 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms Jie not, this Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not? 

SALEMENES. 

He did, and thence was deem'd a deitv. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not so: — of all his conquests a few columns, 

Which may be his, and might be miue, if I 

Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 

The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 

The realms he wasted, and the hearts be broke. 

But here, here in this goblet is his title 

To immortality — the immortal grape 

From -which he first express'd the soul, and gave 

To gladden that of man, as some atonement 

For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 

Had it not been for this, he would have been 

A mortal still in name as iu his grave; 

And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 

A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 

Here 's that which deified him — let it now 

Humauize thee: my surly, chiding brother. 

Pledge me to the Greek god! 

SALEMENES. 

For all thy realms 
I would not so blaspheme our couutry's creed. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

That is to say, thou tbiakest him a hero, 

That he shed blood by oceans; and no god. 

Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 

Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 

The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, 

And Fear her danger; opens a new world 

When this, the present, palls. Well, then, /pledge thee, 

And him as a true man, who did his utmost 

In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 

SALEMENES. 

Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And if I did, 't were better than a trophy, 

Heing bought without a tear. But that is not 

My present purpose: since thou wilt not pledge me, 

Continue what thou pleasest. 

(7b the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 

SALEMENES. 

I would but have recall'd thee from thy dream: 
Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 



SARDANVTALIS. 

Who should rebel? or why? what cause? pretext? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
| What have I done to thee, or to the people, 
I That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me? 

SALEMENES. 

j Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

SARDA.NAPALUS. 

But 
Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is 't not so ? 

SALEMENES. 

Think .' Thou hast wrong'd her ! 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

Patience, prince, and hear me. 

She has all power and splendour of her station, 

Bespect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs. 

The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
j I married her, as monarchs wed — for state, 

And loved her as most husbands love their wives; 
! If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
J Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
j Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

SALEMENES. 

I pray thee, change the theme; my blood disdains 

Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 

Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord! 

Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 

With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 

The queen is silent. 

SARDANAPALUn. 

And why not her brother? 

SALEMENES. 

[ only echo thee the voice of empires, 

Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they murmur 

Hecause I have not shed their blood, nor led them 

To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, 

Or whiten -with their bones the banks of Ganges; 

Nor decimated them with savage laws, 

Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 

Or Babvloniau walls. 

SALEMENES. 

Yet these are trophies 
?>Iore worthy of a people and their prince 
Thau songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Or for my trophies I have founded cities: 

There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 

In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 

My martial <u*andam, chaste Semiramis, 

Do more, except destroy them? 

SALEMENES. 

'T is most true; 
I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well built, 
Are not more goodly than the verse! Say v\hat 
Thou wilt gainst me, my mode of life or rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 



2g4 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Of all things human; hear, « Sardanapalus 


SARDANAPALUS. 


The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 

In one day huill Anchialus and Tarsus. 

Eat, drink, and love; the rest 's not worth a fillip.» 2 


That 's a hard question. — But I answer, Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 


SALEMENES. 


SALEMENES. 


A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
Tor a king to put up hefore his subjects! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up edicts — 


I would thou wouldst not ask me; the next moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 


«Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 

Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding — 

Fall down and worship, or get up and toil.» 

Or thus — « Sardanapalus on (his spot 

Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 

These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy.» 

I leave such things to conquerors; enough 

For me, if I can make my subjects feel 


Trust me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou knowest I have done so ever; 
Take thou the signet. [Gives the Signet. 

SALEMENES. 

I have one more request. — 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Name it. 


The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning to the tomb; I take no licence 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 


SALEMENES. 

That thou this night forbear the banquet 
In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 


SALEMENES. 

Thy sires have been revered as gods 

SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Forbear the banquet! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 


In dusl 


And do their worst: I shall not blench for them ; 


And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
Talk not of such to me! the worms are gods; 
At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
And died for lack of farther nutriment. 


Nor rise the sooner; nor forbear the goblet; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

SALEMENES. 


Those gods were merely men; look to their issue : 

I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 

But nothing godlike, unless it may be 

Tlje thing which you condemn, a disposition 

To love and to be merciful, to pardon 

The follies of my species, and (that 's human) 

To be indulgent to my own. 

SALEMENES. 

Alas! 
The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Woe — woe 


But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if need- 
ful? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour; and 

A sword of such a temper; and a bow 

And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth; 

A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 

And now I think on 't, t is long since I 've used them, 

Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother? 

SALEMENES. 


To the unrivall'd city! 


Is this a time for such fantastic trifling? — 


SARDANAPALUS. 

What dost dread? 


If need be, wilt thou wear them? 

SARDANAPALUS. 


SALEMENES. 


Will I not?— 


Thou art guarded by thy foes: in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee 
And thine and mine; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 


Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

What must we dread? 


They say, thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 


SALEMENES. 

Ambitious treachery, 
Which has environ'd thee with snares; but yet 


That 's false! but let them say so: the old Greeks, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 


There is resource: empower me with thy signet 


Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest, 


To quell the machinations, and I lay 

The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 


The populace of all the nations seize 

Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

The heads — how many? 


SALEMENES. 

They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 


SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


IMust I stay to number 
When even thine own 's in peril? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet— trust me with the rest 

SARDANAPALUS. 


No; 
They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat, 
And never changed their chains but for their armour: 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the licence 


I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
When we take those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

SALEMENES. 

Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek for thine? 


To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 

I would not give the smile of one fair girl 

For all the popular breath that e'er divided 

A name from nothing. What! are the rank tongues 

Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



290 



That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clamour? 

SALEMENES. 

You have said they're men; 
As such their hearts are something. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So my dogs' are ; 
And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed; 
Thou hast my signet: — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd; yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain, 
Given or received; -we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burthen 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
The fatal penalties imposed on life; 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal! done all I could to soothe them: 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

SALEMENES. 

Thou stopp'st 
Short of the duties of a king; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 

To be aught save a monarch; else for me, 

The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

SALEMENES. 

There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What mean'st thou? — t is thy secret; thou desirest 

Few questions, and I 'm not of curious nature. 

Take the fit steps, and since necessity 

Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 

Was man who more desired to rule in peace 

The peaceful only; if they rouse me, better 

They 'd conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 

« The mighty hunter. » I will turn these realms 

To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were, 

But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 

What they have found me, they belie; tliat which 

They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 

To speak it worse; and let them thank themselves. 

SALEMENES. 

Then thou at last canst feel? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Feel! who fepls not 
Ingratitude? 

SALEMENES. 

I will not pause to answer 
With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

[Exit Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS (solus). 

Farewell! 
He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
I know not : — he hath found it, let him quell it. 



Must I consume my life — this little life — 
rn guarding against all may make it less! 
It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
Tracing revolt, suspecting all about me, 
Because they 're near ; and all who are remote, 
Because they're far. But if it should be so — 
If they should sweep me off from earth and empire, 
Whv, what is earth or empire of the earth? 
I 've loved, and lived, and multiplied my image; 
To die is no less natural than those — 
Acts of this clay ! T is true I have not shed 
Blood, as I might have done, in oceans, till 
My name became the svnonyme of death — 
A terror and a trophv. But for this 
I feel no penitence; my life is love: 
If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
Till now no drop from an Assyrian vein 
Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
On objects which could cost her sons a tear: 
If then they hate me, 't is because I hate not; 
If they rebel, it is because I oppress not. 
Oh, men! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 
And mowed down like grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 
Making a desert of fertility. — 
1 11 think no more. — Within there, ho! 
Enter an Attendant. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Slave, tell 
The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 

ATTENDANT. 

King, she is here. 

Myrrha enters. 
sardanapalus (apart to Attendant). 
Away! 
(Addressing Myrrha.) Beautiful being ! 
Thou dost almost anticipate my heart; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest; let me 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

MYRRHA. 

There doth. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I know there doth; but not its name; 
What is it? 

MYRRHA. 

In my native land a god, 
And in my heart a feeling like a god's, 
Exalted: yet 1 own t is only mortal, 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy— 

That is, it would be happy; but 

[Myrrha -pauses. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

There comes 
For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

MYRRHA. 

My lord !— 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ! thus it is — 



1()() 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



For ever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 

Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 

Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 

Have gorged themselves up to equality, 

Or I have quaff d me down to their abasement. 

Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, 

Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I prized 

them, 
That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles; 
But when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

MYRRHA. 

Would that we could! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And dost thou feel this?— Why? 

MYRRHA. 

Then thou wouldst know what thou canst never know. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And that is 

MYRRHA. 

The true value of a heart ; 
At least a woman's. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I have proved a thousand — 
A thousand, and a thousand. 

MYRRHA. 

Hearts ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I think so. 

MYRRHA. 

Not one! the time may come thou mayst. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It will. 
Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

MYRRHA. 

lie did well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And say'st thou so! 
Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

MYRRHA. 

I should do both 
More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou speak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay, from dark plots and snares 
From Medcs — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries ; 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we '11 think no more on "t — 
But of the midnight festival. 

MYRRHA. 

Tis time 



To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What! — and dost thou fear? 

MYRRHA. 

Fear! — -I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear death? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 

MYRRHA. 

I love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And do not I? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced : — yet I blench not. 

MYRRUA. 

That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me; 
For he who loves another loves himself, 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief who dared 
Assume to win them? 

MYRRHA. 

Who is he should dread 
To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him' 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha ! 

MYRRHA. 

Frown not upon me: you have smiled 
Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject ! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Save me, my beauty! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

MYRRHA. 

And without love where dwells security? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I speak of woman's love. 

MYRRHA. 

The very first 
Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips, 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too of ten breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

SARDANAPALUS 

My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music, 

The very chorus of the tragic song 

I 've heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 

Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

MYRRHA. 

I weep not. — But I pray thee do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



2 97 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet oft 
Thou speakest of them. 

MYRRHA. 

True — true : — constant thought 
Will overflow in words unconsciously: 
But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as thou saidst? 

MYRRHA. 

By teaching thee to save thyself, aud not 
Thyself alone, hut these vast, realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more? 

MYRRHA. 

Alas ! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace; and for a king, 
T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And I have never sought but for the last. 

MYRRHA. 

And now art neither. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dost thou say so, Myrrka? 

MYRRHA. 

I speak of civic popular love, self-love, 

Which means that men are kept in awe aud law, 

Yet not oppress'd— at least they must not think so ; 

Or if they think so, deem it necessary 

To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 

A king of feasts, aud flowers, and wine, and revel, 

And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Glory! what 's that? 

MYRRHA. 

Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They cannot answer: when the priests speak for them, 
'T is for some small addition to the temple. 

MYRRHA. 

Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 

But what wotddst have? the empire has been founded, 

I cannot go on multiplying empires. 

MYRRHA. 

Preserve thine own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At least I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates ; 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star; and we will sit 
Crown' d with fresh flowers like 

MYRRHA. 

Victims. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, like sovereigns. 
The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 



Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths, 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 

Enter Pania. 

PANIA. 

"May the king live for ever! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not an hour 
Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

PANIA. 

I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king, 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace : when the general returns, 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What ! am I then coop'd ? 
Already captive? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, 1 would still go forth. 

PANIA. 

I must obey, and yet 

MYRRHA. 

Oh, monarch, listen.— 
How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes uugratified, 
The satraps uucontroU'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 
And alt things in the anarchy of sloth ; 
Till all, save evil, siumber'd through the realm! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
A day which may redeem thee? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race, 
And for thy sons' inheritance? 

PANIA. 

'T is true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Dispatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, it must not be. 

MYRRHA. 

For the sake of thy realm? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Away! 

PANIA. 

For that 
Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

These are mere phantasies; 
There is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal, 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

MYRRHA. 

By all that 's good and glorious, take this couusel. 

38 



298 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 


Business to-morrow. 


And vainer fears. Within there! — Ye slaves, deck 


MYRRH A. 


The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 


Ay, or death to-night. 


If I must make a prison of our palace, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


At least we '11 wear our fetters jocundly : 


Why, let it come, then, unexpectedly, 


If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 


Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love; 


The summer dwelling on its beauteous border, 


So let me fall like the pluck'd rose !— far better 


Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 


Thus than be wither'd. 


[Exit SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


MYRRHA (solus). 


Then thou wilt not yield, 


Why do I love this man? My country's daughters 


Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 


Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 


A monarch into action, to forego 


The slave hath lost all, save her bonds. I love him; 


A trifling revel ? 


And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 


SARDANAPALUS. 


To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 


No. 


The hour is coming when he '11 need all love, 


MYRRHA. 


And find none. To fall from him now were baser 


Then yield for mine: 


Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 


For my sake ! 


Would have been noble in my country's creed : 


SARDANAPALUS. 


I was not made for either. Could I save him, 


Thine, my Myrrha? 


I should not love him better, but myself; 


MYRRHA. 


And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 


'T is the first 


In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 


Boon which I e'er ask'd Assyria's king. 


And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 


SARDANAPALUS. 


That he is hated of his own barbarians, 


That 's true; and, wer't my kingdom, must be granted. 


The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 


Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence! 


Could I but wake a single thought like those 


Thou hear'st me. 


Which even the Phrygians felt, when battling long 


PANIA. 


Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 


And obey. [Exit Pania. 


He would tread down the barbarous crowds,and triumph. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


He loves me, and I love him; the slave loves 


I marvel at thee. 


Her master, and would free him from his vices. 


\yhat is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me? 


If not, I have a means of freedom still ; 


MYRRHA. 


And if 1 cannot teach him how to reign, 


Thy safety; and the certainty that nought 


May show him how alone a king can leave 


Could urge the prince, thy kinsman, to require 


His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 


Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 


[Exit. 


SARDANAPALUS. 




And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 




MYRRHA. 


ACT II. 


Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 




SARDANAPALUS. 


SCENE I. 


To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain fancies. 


The Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 


MYRRHA. 




If the worst come, I shall be where none weep, 


BELESES {solus). 


And that is better than the power to smile. 


The sun goes down; methinks he sets more slowly, 


And thou? 


Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 


I shall be king, as heretofore. 


Like the blood he predicts! If not in vain. 


MYRRHA. 


Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 


Where ? 


I have outwatch'd ye ; reading ray by ray 


SARDANAPALUS. 


The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 


With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 


For what he brings the nations: 't is the furthest 


Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 


Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 


Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing— 


An earthquake should announce so great a fall — 


But either that or nothing must I be : 


A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 


I will not live degraded. 


To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 


MYRRHA. 


Its everlasting page the end of what 


Hadst thou felt 


Seem'd everlasting; but oh! thou true sun! 


Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 


The burning oracle of all that live, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


As fountain of all life, and symbol of 


1 And who will do so now? 


Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 


MYRRHA. 


Thy lore unto calamity? Why not 


Dost thou suspect none? 


Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 


SARDANAPALUS. 


All glorious burst from ocean? why not dart , 


Suspect! — that 's a spy's office. Oh! we lose 


A beam of hope athwart the future's years, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



2 99 



As of wrath to its days ! Hear me ! oh ! hear me ! 

I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 

I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 

And how'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 

When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch' d 

For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 

And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 

And ask'd of thee, aDd thou hast answer'd — hut 

Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 

Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 

To the delighted west, which revels in 

Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 

Death, so it be but glorious? T is a sunset: 

And mortals may be happy to resemble 

The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces, by an inner door. 

ARBACES. 

Beleses, why 
So wrapt in thy devotions? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day? 
Our business is Avith night — 't is come. 

BELESES. 

But not 
Gone. 

ARBACES. 

Let it roll on — we are ready. 

BELESES. 

Yes. 
Would it were over ! 

ARBACES. 

Does the prophet doubt, 
To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

BELESES. 

I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

ARBACES. 

Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime, 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Ouaf fd by the line of Niuirod. 

BELESES. 

'T was a brave one. 

ARBACES. 

And is a weak one — 't is worn out — we '11 mend it. 

BELESES. 

Art sure of that ? 

ARBACES. 

Its founder was a hunter — 
I am a soldier — what is there to fear? 

BELESES. 

The soldier. 

ARBACES. 

And the priest, it may be ; but 
If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

BELESES. 

Look to the sky ! 



ARBACES. 

I look. 

BELESES- 

What seest thou? 

ARBACES. 

A fair summer's twilight, and 
The gathering of the stars. 

BELESES. 

And midst them mark 
Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit ils place in the blue ether. 

ARBACES. 

Well ! 

BELESES. 

'T is thy natal ruler— thy birth planet. 
arbaces (touching his scabbard). 
My star is in this scabbard : when it shines, 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer, 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of— what gods thou wilt ; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

BELESES. 

Ay, and the most devout for brave— thou hast not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

ARBACES. 

No ; I own thee 
As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship ; now, 
Will it but please thee to forget the pviest, 
And be the warrior ? 

BELESES. 

Why not both ? 

ARBACES. 

The belter; 
And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluckd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear him whine, it may be 

BELESES. 

Do not deem it : 
He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
And, were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

ARBACES. 

They 11 not resist. 

BELESES. 

Why not ? they are soldiers. 

ARBACES. 

True, 
And therefore need a soldier to command them. 

BELESES. 

That Salemenes is. 

ARBACES. 

But not their king. 
Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not, 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

BELESES. 

But 
Not from the council— there he is ever constant. 



3oo 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ARBACES. 

And ever thwarted ; -what would you have more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
His blood dishonour'd, and himself disdain'd : 
Why, it is his revenge we work for. 

BELESES. 

Could 
He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 

ARBACES. 

What if we sound him? 

BELESES. 

Yes — if the time served. 
Enter Balea. 

BALEA. 

Satraps ! the king commands your presence at 
The feast to-night. 

BELESES. 

To hear is to obey. 
In the pavilion ? 

BALEA. 

No ; here in the palace. 

ARBACES. 

How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 

BALEA. 

It is so order'd now. 

ARBACES. 

And why ? 

BALEA. 

I know not. 
May I retire ? 

ARBACES. 

Stay. 

beleses (to arbaces aside). 

Hush ! let him go his way. 
(Alternately to Balea.) 
Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was 't midnight? 

balea. 
It was ; the place, the Hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
I humble me before you and depart. [Exit Balea. 

ARBACES. 

I like not this same sudden change of place; 

There is some mystery: wherefore should he change it? 

BELESES. 

Doth he not change a thousand times a-day? 

Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 

And moves more parasangs in its intents 

Than generals in their marches, when they seek 

To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

ARBACES. 

He loved that gay pavilion — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

BELESES. 

And he loved his queen — 
And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

ARBACES. 

Still— I like it not. 
If he has changed — why so must we ! the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower, 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
But in the Hall, of Nimrod 

BELESES. 

Is it so ? 



Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily ! does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

ARBACES. 

When the hour comes, 
Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd for 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

BELESES. 

I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

ARBACES. 

Now, were I a soothsayer, 
I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who 's here ? 

Enter Salemenes. 

SALEMENES. 

Satraps ! 

BELESES. 

My prince ! 

SALEMENES. 

Well met — I sought ye both, 
Cut elsewhere than the palace. 

ARBACES. 

Wherefore so? 

SALEMENES. 

'T is not the hour. 

ARBACES. 

The hour — what hour? 

SALEMENES. 

Of midnight. 

BELESES. 

Midnight, my lord ! 

SALEMENES. 

What, are you not invited? 

BELESES. 

Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

SALEMENES. 

Is it usual 
Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

ARBACES. 

Why — we but now received it. 

SALEMENES. 

Then why her* ? 

ARBACES. 

On duty. 

SALEMENES. 

On what duty? 

BELESES. 

On the state's. 
We have the privilege to approach the presence, 
But found the monarch absent. 

SALEMENES. 

And I too 

Am upon duty. 

ARBACES. 

May we crave its purport ? 

SALEMENES. 

To arrest two traitors. Guards ! within there ! 
Enter Guards. 
salemenes (continuing). 

Satraps 
Your swords. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3o 



beleses (delivering liis). 
My lord, behold my scimitar. 
ARBaces (drawing his sword). 
Take mine. 

salemenes (advancing). 
I will. 

ARBACES. 

But in your heart the blade — 
The hilt quits not this hand. 

salemenes (drawing). 

How ! dost thou brave me? 
'T is well — this saves a trial and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

ARBACES. 

Soldiers ! Ay — 
Alone you dare not. 

SALEMENES. 

Alone ! foolish slave — 
What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength: thy tooth is nought without its venom — 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 

beleses (interposing). 
Arbaces ! are you mad ? Have I not render'd 
My sword? Then trust, like me, our sovereign's justice. 

ARBACES. 

No— I will sooner trust the stars thou pratest of, 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body — so far that 
None else shall chain them. 

salemenes (to the Guards). 

You hear him, and me. 
Take him not— kill. 

[The Guards attack Arbaces, who defends him- 
self valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
salemenes. 
Is it even so ; and must 
I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 
Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Hold your hands — 
Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken ? 
My sword ! oh fook, I wear no sword ! here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one of the 
soldiers, and makes between the combatants — 
they separate. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In my very palace ! 
What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

BELESES. | 

Sire, your justice. 

SALEMENES. 

Or— 
Your weakness. 

sardanapalus (raising the sword). 
How? 

SALEMENES. 

Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 
Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I 'm content. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Who dares assail Arbaces ? 



What— him ! 



SALEMENES. 
\[ 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Indeed ! 
Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant? 

salemenes (showing the signet). 
Thine. 

arbaces (confused). 
The king's ! 

SALEMENES. 

Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I parted not from this for such a purpose. 

SALEMENES. 

You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then sheathe 
Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords to the j 
scabbards. 

salemenes. 
Mine 's sheathed ; I pray you sheathe not yours; 
T is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 

( To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. Well, 

sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 

beleses. 
The prince must answer that. 

SALEMENES. 

Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beleses ! 
That were an union I will not believe. 

BELESES. 

Where is the proof? 

SALEMENES. 

I '11 answer that, if once 
The king demands your fellow traitor's sword. 

ARBACES (tO SALEMENES). 

A sword which hath been drawn as oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

SALEMENES. 

And now against his brother, 
And in an hour or so against himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 

No — I '11 not hear of such things. These vain bickerings 

Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues and baser 

Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 

You must have been deceived, my brother. 

SALEMENES. 

First 
Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I will answer all. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, if I thought so — 
Cut no. it cannot be; the Mede Arbaces— 
The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best captain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I 11 not insult him thus, to bid him render 



302 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The scimitar to me he never yielded 

Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 

salemenes (delivering back the signet). 
Monarch, take back your signet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, retain it ; 
But use it with more moderation. 

SALEMENES. 

Sire, 
I used it for your honour, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So I should : 
He never ask'd it. 

SALEMENES. 

Doubt not, he will have it 
Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

BELESES. 

I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 

So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 

Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 

SALEMENES. 

Peace, factious priest and faithless soldier ! thou 
Unitest in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in Ghaldea. 

BELESES. 

Hear him, 
My liege— the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh ! for that I pray you 
Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 

BELESES. 

King ! do not deem so : they are with the stars, 
And 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
If you preach farther. — Why, this is rank treason. 

SALEMENES. 

My lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To school me in the worship of 
Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

SALEMENES. 

My lord, and king, and brother, 
I pray ye, pause. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, and be sermonized, 
And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 

BELESES. 

Monarch ! respect them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh ! for that— I love them ; 
I love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes : 



I love to see their rays redoubled in 

The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave, 

As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 

And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 

Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 

Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 

As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 

Worlds or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not ; 

There 's something sweet in my uncertainty 

I would not change for your Chaldean lore : 

Besides, I know of these all clay can know 

Of aught above it or below it — nothing. 

I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 

When they shine on my grave, I shall know neither. 

BELESES. 

For neither, sire, say better. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I will wait, 
If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving either. 

salemenes (aside). 
His lusts have made him mad. Then must I save him 
Spite of himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Please you to hear me, Satraps ! 
And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
More than the soldier, and would doubt thee all 
Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
m peace — I 11 not say pardon — which must be 
Earn'd by the guilty ; this I '11 not pronounce ye, 
Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
And so live on. Were I the thing some think me, 
Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
Of this our palace into the dry dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pass. 
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty, 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit, better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

ARBACES. 

Sire, this clemency 

beleses (interrupting him). 
Is worthy of yourself ; and, although innocent, 
We thank 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
His offspring needs none. 

BELESES. 

But, being innocent— 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 

Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not grateful. 

BELESES. 

So we should be, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favour. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3o3 



SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's a good sentence for a homily, 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

BELESES. 

I trust there is no cause. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No cause, perhaps ; 
But many causers: — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not spare him , 
Were they once masters — but that 's doubtful. Satraps! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
Follow me. 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and the 
Train, etc., leaving Arbaces and Beleses. 

ARBACES. 

Beleses ! 

BELESES. 

Now , what think you ? 

ARBACES. 

That we are lost. 

BELESES. 

That we have won the kingdom. 

ARBACES. 

What ! thus suspected— with the sword slung o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering 
To be blown down by his imperious breath , 
Which spared us— why, I know not. 

BELESES. 

Seek not why ; 
But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
Nothing, except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

ARBACES. 

And yet 

BELESES. 

What, doubting still ? 

ARBACES. 

He spared our lives — nay, more, 
Saved them from Salemenes. 

BELESES. 

And how long 
Will he so spare? till the first drunken minute. 

ARBACES. 

Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly; 
Gave royally what we had forfeited 
Basely 

BELESES. 

Say, bravely. 

ARBACES. 

Somewhat of both, perhaps. 
But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 



BELESES. 

And lose the world I 

ARBACES. 

Lose any thing, except my own esteem. 

BELESES. 

I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distaffs! 

ARBACES. 

But no less we owe them; 
And I should blush far more to take the granter's ! 

BELESES. 

Thou mayst endure whate'er thou wilt ; the stars 
Have written otherwise. 

ARBACES. 

Though they came down, 
And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

BELESES. 

This is weakness — worse 
Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

ARBACES. 

Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he spoke , 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it; 
And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 

BELESES. 

I told you that you had too much despised him , 
And that there was some royalty within him. 
What then? he is the nobler foe. 

ARBACES. 

But we 
The meaner: — Would he had not spared us ! 

BELESES. 

So— 
Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily? 

ARBACES. 

No — but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

BELESES. 

Oh, the souls of some men ! 
Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
Because, for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say?— Sardanapalus! 
I know no name more ignominious. 

ARBACES. 

But 
An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us : 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 

BELESES. 

No — the queen liked no sharers of the kingdom, 
Not even a husband. 

ARBACES. 

I must serve him truly 

BELESES. 

And humbly? 

ARBACES. 

No, sir, proudly — being honest. 
I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 






3o4 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


You may do your own deeming — you have codes, 


PANIA. 


And mysteries, and corollaries of 


My order is unto the satraps and 


Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 


Their household train. 


And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 


ARBACES. 


And now you know me. 


But 


BELESES. 


BELESES. 


Have you finish'd? 


It must be obey'd ; 


ARBACES. 


Say, we depart. 


Yes— 


PANIA. 


With you. 


My order is to see you 


BELESES. 


Depart, and not to bear your answer. 


And would, perhaps, betray as well 


beleses (aside). 


As quit me! 


Ay! 


ARBACES. 


Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 


That 's a sacerdotal thought, 


PANIA. 


And not a soldiers. 


I will retire to marshal forth the guard 


BELESES. 


Of honour which befits your rank, and wait 


Be it what you will — 


Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 


Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 


[Exit Pania. 


ARBACES. 


BELESES. 


No- 


Novo then obey ! 


There is more peril in your subtle spirit 


ARBACES. 


Thau in a phalanx. 


Doubtless. 


BELESES. 


BELESES. 


If it must be so — 


Yes, to. the gates 


I 11 on alone. 


That grate the palace, which is now our prison : 


ARBACES. 


No further. 


Alone! 


ARBACES. 


BELESES. 


Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed! 


Thrones hold but one. 


The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 


ARBACES. 


Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 


But this is fill'd. 


BELESES. 


BELESES. 


Graves ! 


With worse than vacancy — 


ARBACES. 


A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 


If I thought so, this good sword should dig 


I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you; 


One more than mine. 


Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 


BELESES. 


To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 


It shall have work enough : 


Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 


Let me hope better than thou augurest : 


Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 


At present let us hence as best -we may. 


Into a shallow softness; but now, rather 


Thou dost agree with me in understanding 


Than see my country languish, I will be 


This order as a sentence ? 


Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 


ARBACES. 


Of one or both, for sometimes both are one : 


Why, what other 


And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 


Interpretation should it bear? it is 


ARBACES. 


The very policy of orient monarchs — 


Your servant ! 


Pardon and poison — favours and a sword — 


BELESES. 


A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 


Why not? better than be slave, 


How many satraps in his fathers time — 


The pardon'd slave of she Sardanapalus. 


For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless — 




BELESES. 


Enter Pania. 


But Quill not, can not be so now. 




ARBACES. 


pania. 


I doubt it. 


My lords, I bear an order from the king. 


How many satraps have I seen set sent out 


ARBACES. 


In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties, 


It is obey'd ere spoken. 


Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how. 


BELESES. 


But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 


Notwithstanding, 


So long and heavy. 


Let 's hear it. 


BELESES. 


PANIA. 


Let us but regain 


Forthwith, on this very night, 


The free air of the city, and we '11 shorten 


Repair to your respective satrapies 


The journey. 


Of Babylon and Media. 


ARBACES. 


BELESES. 


'T will be shorten'd at the gates, 


With our troops ! 


It may be. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



lo5 



BELESES. 

No : they hardly -will risk that. 
They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

ARBACES. 

If I but thought he did not mean my life — — 

BELESES. 

Fool! hence — what else should despotism alarm'd 
Mean? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 

ARBACES. 

Towards our provinces? 

EELESES. 

No; towards your kingdom. 
There 's time, there 's heart and hope, and power, and 

means, 
Which their half measures leave us in full scope. — 
Away! 

ARBACES. 

And I, even yet repenting, must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

BELESES. 

Self-defeuce is a virtue, 
Sole bulwark of all right. Away ! I say : 
Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 
And the walls have a scent of night-shade — hence! 
Let us not leave them time for further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence : 

Nay, there 's no other choice but hence, I say. 

[Exit with Arbaces, -who follows reluctantly. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed. 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

SALEMENES. 

Yes, 
As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
Twined round their roots. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, what wouldst have me do ? 

SALEMENES. 

Undo what you have done. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Revoke my pardon ? 

SALEMENES. 

Replace the crown, now tottering on your temples. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That were tyrannical. 

SALEMENES. 

But sure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

We are so. 
What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 

SALEMENES. 

They are not there yet — never should they he so, 
Were I well listen'd to. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nay, I have listen'd 
Impartially to thee— why not to them ? 



SALEMENES. 

You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave, to order forth the guard. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And you will join us at the banquet? 

SALEMENES. 

Sire, 
Dispense with me — I am no wassailer: 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nay, but 't is fit to revel now and then. 

SALEMENES. 

And fit that some should watch for those who revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 

My brother, my best subject, better prince 

Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 

And I — I know not what, and care not; but 

Think not I am insensible to all 

Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough, yet kind. 

Though oft-reproving, sufferance of my follies. 

If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 

That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 

The advice was sound; but let them live : we will not 

Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 

Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 

Which their death had not left me. 

SALEMENES. 

Thus you run 

The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 

A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 

Still let them be made quiet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tempt me not: 
My word is past. 

SALEMENES. 

But it may be recall'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is royal. 

SALEMENES. 

And should therefore be decisive. 
This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be full. 
Or it is none. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And who persuaded me 
After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 

SALEMENES. 

True ; that I had forgotten : that is, sire, 

If they e'er reach their satrapies — why, then, 

Reprove me more for my advice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And if 
Thev do not reach them — look to it ! — in safely, 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

SALEMENES. 

Permit me to depart; 
Their safety shall be cared for. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Get thee hence, then; 
And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 

'$9 



3o6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SALEMENES. 

Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS (solus). 

That man is of a temper too severe : 
Hard, but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers ; 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 't is on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure ; 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 
Enter Myrrha. 
myrrha. 

King ! the sky 
Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tempest, say'st thou ? 

MYRRHA. 

Ay, my good lord. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

For my own part, I should be 
Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds? 

MYRRHA. 

In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Jove — ay, your Baal — 
Ours also has a property in thunder, 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

MYRRHA. 

That were a dread omen. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

MYRRHA. 

Now, Jove be praised ! that he 
Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
To shield thee from them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Child, if there be peril, 
Methinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river's brink. 



MYRRHA. 

Not so, these walls 
Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ! but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, nor in the palace, 
Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be: 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Danish'd, and far upon their way. 

MYRRHA. 

They live, then? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So sanguinary? Thou! 

MYRRHA. 

I would not shrink 
From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

This is strange; 
The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

MYRRHA. 

'T is a Greek virtue, 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But not a kingly one — I '11 none on 't; or, 
If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

MYRRHA. 

These men sought to be so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

MYRRHA. 

For you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No matter — still 't is fear. 
I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women. 

MYRRHA. 

My lord, I am no boaster of my love, 
Nor of my attributes; I have shared your splendour, 
And will partake your fortunes. You may Jive 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads; 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
Bather than prove it to you in your griefs, 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Griefs cannot come where perfect love exists, 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let 's in — 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests who grace our feast. 

[Exeunt. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3o' 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 



The Hall of the Palace illuminated. — Sardanapalus 
and his Guests at Table. — A storm without, and 
Thunder occasionally heard during the Banquet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Fill full! Why this is as it should be; here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

ZAMES. 

Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure sparkles. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings, 

Or my -wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 

She could not keep when conquer'd? 

ALTADA. 

Mighty though 
They were, as all thy royal line have been, 
Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And pleasure, good Ahada, to which glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek? 
Enjoyment! We have cut the way short to it, 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

ZAMES. 

No; 
All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise ; 
Some say that there be traitors. 

ZAMES. 

Traitors they 
Who dare to say so ! — T is impossible. 
What cause ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What cause? true, — fill the goblet up; 
We will not think of them : there are none such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

ALTADA. 

Guests, to my pledge ! 
Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king— the monarch, say I ! 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames and the Guests kneel, and exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus! 

[It thunders as they kneel; some startup in 
confusion. 

ZAMES. 

Why do ye rise, my friends? In that strong peal 
His father gods consented. 

MYRRHA. 

Menaced, rather. 
King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
Before me can be gods, I '11 not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends, 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there : 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 



Both— 
Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Methinks the thunders still increase : it is 
An awful night. 

mYrrha. 
Oh yes, for those who have 
No palace to protect their worshippers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I 'd do it. 

MYRRHA. 

Thou 'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And your gods, then, 
Who can, and do not? 

MYRP.HA. 

Do not speak of that, 
Lest we provoke them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

True, they love not censure 
Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck me : 
Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 
Air-worshippers — that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now ? 

MYRRHA. 

The Persian prays 
Upon his mountain. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, when the sun shines. 

MYRRHA. 

And I would ask if this your palace were 
Unroof d and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low? 

ALTADA. 

The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 

Upon a nation whom she knows not well; 

The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 

And homage is their pride. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nay, pardon, guests, 
The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

ALTADA. 

Pardon! sire: 
We honour her of all things next to thee. 
Hark! what was that? 

ZAMES. 

That ! nothing but the jaiT 
Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

ALTADA. 

It sounded like the clash of — hark again ! 

ZAMES. 

The big rain pattering on the roof. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No more. 
Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ! 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st, 
Who in thy country threw 

Enter VxtiiA, with his Sword and Garments bloody, and 
disordered, The Gtiests rise in confusion. 



3o8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Pania (to the guards). 

Look to the portals; 
And with your best speed to the wall -without. 
Your arms! To arms! The king's in danger. Monarch! 
Excuse this haste, — 't is faith. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Speak on. 

PANIA. 

It is, 
As Salemenes fear'd : the faithless satraps — — 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You are wounded — give some wine. Take breath, good 
Pania. 

PANIA. 

T is nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

MYRRHA. 

Well, sir, the rebels? 

PANIA. 

Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 

Their stations in the city, they refused 

To march: and on my attempt to use the power 

Which I was delegated with, they call'd 

Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

MYRRHA. 

All? 

PANIA. 

Too many. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Spare not of thy free speech, 
To spare mine ears the truth. 

PANIA. 

My own slight guard 
Were faithful— and what's left of it is still so. 

MYRRHA. 

And are these all the force still faithful ? 



No— 
The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king. 
(He hesitates.) I am charged to 

MYRRHA. 

'T is no time for hesitation. 

PANIA. 

Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What, ho ! 
My armour there. 

MYRRHA. 

And wilt thou ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Will I not? 
Ho, there !— But seek not for the buckler ; t is 
Too heavy.— a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where are the rebels? 



PhNIA. 

Scarce a furlong's length 
From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho! 
Order my horse out — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

[Exit Sfero for the armour. 

MYRRHA. 

How I do love thee ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I ne'er doubted it. 

MYRRHA. 

But now I know thee. 

sardanapalus (to his attendant). 

Bring down my spear, too. — 
Where 's Salemenes? 

PANIA. 

Where a soldier should be, 
In the thick of the fight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx? 

PANIA. 

*T was 
When I late left him, and I have no fear : 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 

PANIA. 

There 's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Altada — Zames — forth and arm ye ! There 

Is all in readiness in the armoury. 

See that the women are bestow'd in safety 

In the remote apartments : let a guard 

Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 

The post but with their lives— command it, Zames. 

Altada, arm yourself, and return here; 

Your post is near our person. 

[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfero and others witli the King's Arms, etc. 

SFERO. 

King ! your armour. 
sardanapalus (arming himself). 
Give me the cuirass — so : my baldric ; now 
My sword : I had forgot the helm, where is it ? 
That 's well — no, 't is too heavy : you mistake, too — 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

SFERO. 

Sire, I deem'd 
That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath—and, trust me, 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebel? Fellow '. 
Your part is to obey : return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will so forth without it. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



.09 



SFERO. 

At least wear this. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 
A mountain on ray temples. 

SFERO. 

Sire, the meanest 
Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you — for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her brightness 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I go forth to be recognized, and thus 

Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear! I 'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, and turns to Sfero 
Sfero— I had forgotten — bring the mirror. 1 

SFERO. 

The mirror, sire? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, sir, of polish'd brass, 
Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 

[Exit Sfero. 
Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels? 

MYRRHA. 

Because my place is here. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And when I am gone 

MYRRHA. 

I follow. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You! to battle? 

MYRRHA. 

If it were so, 
'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will await here your return. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The place 
Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail; and, if it should be so, 
And I return not 

MYRRHA. 

Still, we meet again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How? 

MYRRHA. 

In the spot where all must meet at last — 
In Hades! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx; and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Darest thou so much? 

MYRRHA. 

I dare all things, 
Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebels booty: forth, and do your bravest. 

Re-enter Sfero, with the mirror. 

sardanapalus (looking at himself). 
This cuirass fits me well, the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks, I seem 

[Flings away the helmet, after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys; and now to prove them. 
Altada! Where 's Altada? 



« Such the mirror Otho held 

In the IJlyrian field."— See Juvenal. 



SFERO. 

Waiting, sire, 
; Without: lie has your shield in readiness. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

1 True : I forgot he is my shield-bearer 

: By right of blood, derived from age to age. 

| Myrrha, embrace me; yet once more — once more — 

! Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 

| Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

MYRRHA. 

, Go forth, and conquer! 

[Exit Sardanapalus and Sfero. 

Now, I am alone. 
| All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, 1 know not" how nor "why. 
Not for that he is king; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave; 
And yet I love him more. Oh ! mighty Jove! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
Who knows not of Olympus: yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark — to the war shout ! 

Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave: — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout! and now the clash 
Of arms — and now — and now — 

Enter Altada. 

ALTADA. 

Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

MYRRHA. 

He is not here; what wouldst thou with him? How 
Goes on the conflict? 

altada. 
Dubiously and fiercely. 

MYRRHA. 

And the king? 

ALTADA. 

Like a king. I must find Sfero, 
And bring him a new spear and his own helmet, 
He fights till now bare-headed, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features., 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

MYRRHA. 

Ye gods, 
Who fulmine o'er my fathers' land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the king? 

ALTADA. 

By Salemenes, 
Who sent me privily upon this charge, 



3io 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 

The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 

What, Sfero ! I will seek the armoury. 

He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

MYRRHA. 

'T is no dishonour — no — 
'T is no dishonour to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff, surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 

Enter an Officer. 

officer. 

Lost, 
Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames? 

MYRRHA. 

Posted with the guard appointed 
To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer. 

MYRRHA (solus). 

He 's gone ; and told no more than that all 's lost ! 
What need have I to know more? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, all merged: and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least 
My fate is in my keeping: no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Pa nia. 

PANIA. 

Away with me, 
P.Iyrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that 's left us now. 

MYRRHA. 

The king ? 

PANIA. 

Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

MYRRHA. 

Then 
He lives 

PANIA. 

And charged me to secure your life, 
And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

MYRRHA. 

Will he then give way ? 

PANIA. 

Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and, step by step, disputes 
The very palace. 

MYRRHA. 

They are here, then : — ay, 
Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 



Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

PANIA. 

Away with me — away! 

MYRRHA. 

No ; I '11 die here ! — Away, and tell your king 
I loved him to the last. 

[Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes, with 
Soldiers. Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges 
himself with them. 

sardanapalus. 
Since it is thus, 
We '11 die where we were born — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have dispatch'd 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they '11 be here anon. 
All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns towards Myrrha. 

SALEMENES. 

We have breathing time: yet one more charge, my 

friends — 
One for Assyria! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rather say, for Bactria! 
My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we '11 hold together 
This realm as province. 

SALEMENES. 

Hark! they come — they come. 
Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 

ARBACES. 

Set on! we have them in the toil. Charge ! charge ! 

BELESES. 

On! on! — Heaven fights for us, and with us — On! 

[They charge the King and Salemenes with 
their Troops, who defend themselves till 
the Arrival of Zames with the Guard be- 
fore mentioned. The Rebels are then dri 
ven off and pursued by Salemenes, etc. 
As the King is going to join the pursuit, 
Beleses crosses him. 

beleses. 
Ho ! tyrant — I will end this war. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Even so, 
My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee, 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 

beleses. 
Thine hour is come. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, thine. — I 've lately read, 
Though but a young astrologer, the stars; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
beleses. 

But not by thee. 

[They fight: Beleses is wounded and dis- 
armed. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Sardanapalus (raising his sword to dispatch him, 

exclaims — ). 
Now call upon thy planets ; will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit? 

[A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. 
Tliey assail the King, who, in turn, is 
rescued by a party of his Soldiers, who 
drive tlie Rebels off. 
The villain -was a prophet, after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 

MYRRHA (to PANIA). 

Pursue ! Why stand'st thou here, and leavest the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee? 

PANIA. 

The king's command was, not to quit thee. 

MYRRHA. 

Me! 
Think not of me— a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
Or thou art shamed! Nay, then, I will go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 
And bid thee guard me there —where thou shouldstshield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha. 

pania. 
Yet stay, damsel ! She is gone. 
If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than him, 
Who never flash' d a scimitar till now? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though] 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada, and Sfero by an. opposite door. 

altada. 

Myrrha ! 
What, gone! yet she was here when the fight raged, 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

SFERO. 

I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to the harem. 

ALTADA. 

If the king 
Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 
sfero. 

Let us trace them ; 
She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

ALTADA. 

Baal himself 
Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it : he deties 
All augury of foes or friends; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man 's inscrutable. 

SFERO. 

Not more than others. 



All are the sons of circumstance: away — 

Let 's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 

Tortured for his infatuation, and 

Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, etc. 

SALEMENES. 

The triumph is 
Flattering : they are beaten backward from the palace, 
And we have open'd regular access 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor? where 's the king? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, etc. and Myrrha. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Here, brother. 

SALEMENES. 

Unhurt, I hope. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not quite; but let it pass. 
We 've clear'd the palace 

SALEMENES. 

And, I trust, the city. 
Our numbers gather ; and I have order'd onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It is already; or at least they march'd 

Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 

Who spared no speed. I am spent ; give me a seat. 

SALEMENES. 

There stands the throne, sire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is no place to rest on, 
For mind or body: let me have a couch, 

[They place a seat. 
A peasant's stool — I care not what. So — now 
I breathe more freely. 

SALEMENES. 

This great hour has proved 
The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And the most tiresome. Where 's my cupbearer? 
Bring me some water. 

salemenes (siniling). 

T is the first time he 
Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Blood, doubtless. 
But there 's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure element: 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd, 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
My charge upon the rebels. Where 's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet? 

ONE OF THE GUARDS. 

Slain, sire '. 
An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Slain! unrewarded! 
And slain to serve my thirst: that "s hard, poor slave! 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold: all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught; fori was parch'd 
As I am now. [They bring water — he drinks 

I live agaijfcf— from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
But war on water. 

SALEMENES. 

And that bandage, sire, 
j 'Which girds your arm? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A scratch from brave Releses. 

MYRRHA. 

i Oh ! he is wounded ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not too much of that; 
} And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
J Now 1 am cooler. 

MYRRHA. 

You have bound it with 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The fillet of my diadem: the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me 
Save an incumbrance. 

myrrha (to the attendants). 
Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful: pray, retire; 
I will unbind your wound, and tend it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Do SO, 
For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
Knowst thou of wounds! yet wherefore do I ask? 
Knowst thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion? 

SALEMENES. 

Herding with the other females, 
i Like frighten'd antelopes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No: like the dam 
J Of the young lion, femininely raging 
i (And femininely meaneth furiously, 

Because all passions in excess are female) 
I Against lhe hunter flying with her cub, 
I She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
} Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers 
! In the pursuit. 

SALEMENES. 

Indeed! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You see, this night 
Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 
As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins, that rose 
Along her most transparent brow; her nostril, 
Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
Apart; her voice, that clove through all the din, 
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling; her 
Waved arms, more dazzling, with their own born white- 
ness, 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp : all these things made 



Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of victory, or Victory herself, 
Come down to hail us hers. 

salemenes (aside). 

This is too much; 
Again the love-fit 's on him, and all 's lost, 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

(Aloud). But, pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound— you said even now 't was painful. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's true, too; but I must not think of it. 

SALEMENES. 

I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Be it so. 
salemenes (in retiring). 
Myrrha ! 

MYRRHA. 

Prince? 

SALEMENES. 

You have shown a soul to-night, 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time : thou lov'st the king? 

MYRRHA. 

I love 

Sardanapalus. 

SALEMENES. 

But wouldst have him king still? 

MYRRHA. 

I would not have him less than what he should be. 

SALEMENES. 

Well, then, to have him king, and yours, and all 
He should, or should not be; to have him live, 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 

MYRRHA. 

There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this ; I will not fail. 

All that a woman's weakness can 

SALEMENES. 

Is power 
Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha! what, at whispers 
With my stern brother? I shall soon be jealous. 

myrrha (smiling). 
You have cause, sire ; for on the earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's tru;t — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Praise him, but not so warmly. 1 must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade : yet you speak truth. 

MYRRHA. 

And now retire, to have your wound look'd lo. 
Pray lean on me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, love ! but not from pain. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3i3 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Sardanapalus discovered sleeping upon a couch, and 
occasionally disturbed in liis slumbers, with Myrrh a 
watching. 

myrrha [sola, gazing). 
I have stolen upon his rest, if rest it be, 
Which thus convulses slumber: shall I wake him? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet! 
Whose reign is o'er sealed eyelids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd, 
Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. 
Again he moves— again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow; or the blast 
Ruftles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
From what I rouse him? It seems pain; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night; the grief, too, of 
His wouud, though slight, may cause all this, and shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second, not disturb her. 

sardanapalus [awakening). 
Not so — although ye multiplied the stars, 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. — Hence! — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes, 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of lnde — away! away! 

Where am I? Where the spectres? Where No — that 

Is no false phantom: I should know it 'midst 

All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 

From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha ! 

myrrha. 
Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the drops 
Gather like night-dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer ; 
All will go well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thy hand — so — 't is thy hand ; 
T is flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

MYRRHA. 

At least know me 
For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 

MYRRHA. 

My lord! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I 've been i' the grave — where worms are lords, 



And kings are — But I did not deem it so; 
I thought 't was nothing. 

MYRRHA. 

So it is; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh, Myrrha ! if 
Sleep shows such things, what may not death disclose ? 

MYRRHA. 

I know no evil death can show, which life 

Has not already shown to those who live 

Embodied longest. If there be indeed 

A shore, where mind survives, 't will be as mind, 

All unincorporate: or if there flits 

A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 

Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and heaven, 

And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 

Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I fear it not; but I have felt — have seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

MYRRHA. 

And so have I. 
The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
Speak it, t will lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Methought 

MYRRHA. 

Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — exhausted; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit: seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not now — I would not 
Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt : — and canst thou bear to hear it 

MYRRI)A. 

I can bear all things, dreams of life or death, 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And this look'd real, 
I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 

MYRRHA. 

Say on. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 
Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our custom'd meeting, 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognize it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited hirn to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — I fill'd it — . 
He took it not — but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye; 

4o 



3i4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



i frown'd upon him as a king should frown— 
He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
Because it changed not ; and I turn'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 

Where thou wert worit to be. But 

[He pauses. 

MYRRHA. 

What instead? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In thy own chair— thy own place in the banquet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle; but 
Instead, a grey-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
Female in garb, and crown d upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passion 
Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate: — my veins curdled. 

MYRRHA. 

Is this all? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Upon 
Her right hand— her lank, bird-like right hand— stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood; and on 
Her left another, fill'd with — what 1 saw not, 
But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

MYRRHA. 

And felt you not this a mere vision? 



SARDANAPALUS. 



No; 



It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 

I turn'd from one face to another, in 

The hope to find at last one which I knew 

Ere I saw theirs; but no— all turn'd upon me, 

And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared, 

Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 

Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 

And life in me: there was a horrid kind 

Of sympathy between us, as if they 

Had lost a part of death to come to me, 

And I the half of life to sit by them. 

We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being! 

MYRRHA. 

And the end ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At last 1 pate marble as they, when rose 
The hunter and the crew; and smiling on me— 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me— I should say, 
His lips, for his eves moved not— and the woman's 
Thin lip's relax'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose; and the crowu'd figures on each hand 
Bosc also, as if aping their chief shades- 
Mere mimics even in death ; but I sate still : 
A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
And at the last I fear d them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then— then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine: I took it, 
And grasp'd it-but it melted from my own ; 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 



MYKRHA. 

And was; the ancestors of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

SARDANAPALUS. 
Ay, Myrrh a, but the woman, 
The female who remain'd, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung: 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me; while I shrunk from her, as if, 
In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng'd thick and shapeless: I was dead, yet feeling— 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms, 
Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the air ! 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
In all these agonies, and woke and found thee. 

MYRRHA. 

So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 

Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 

But think not of these things — the mere creations 

Of late events, acting upon a frame 

Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil, 

Such as might try the sternest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothing. 

Enter Salemenes. 

SALEMENES. 

Is the king so soon awake ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept; 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Hose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was amongst them, too ■ but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

SALEMENES. 

So I term you also, 
Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth, 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head— repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How wears the night? 

SALEMENES. 

There yet remain some hours 
Of darkness: use them for your further rest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, not to-night, if 't is not gone: methought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 

MYRRHA. 

Scarcely one; 
I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let us then hold council; 
To-morrow we set forth. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3i5 



SALEMENES. 

But ere that time, 
I had a grace to seek. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is granted. 

SALEMENES. 

Hear it, 
Ere you reply too readily ; and 't is 
For your ear only. 

MYRRHA. 

Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Myrrha, 

SALEMENES. 

That slave deserves her freedom. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Freedom only! 
That slave deserves to share a throne. 

SALEMENES. 

Your patience — 
T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How! of the queen? 

SALEMENES. 

Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety, 

That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 

For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 

Governs; and there at all events secure 

My nephews and your sons their lives; and, with them, 

Their just pretensions to the crown, in case 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I perish — as is probable : well thought- 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

SALEMENES. 

That 
Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My sons? It may 
Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep; 
And what can I reply to comfort them, 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles? 
You know I cannot feign. 

SALEMENES. 

Cut you can feel; 
At least, I trust so: in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Unto what end ? what purpose? I will grant 
Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 

SALEMENES. 

You know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish; 
But 't was her wish : she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T will be useless, 
But let her come. 

SALEMENES'. 
I go. [Exit SALEMENES. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

We have lived asunder 
Too long to meet again— and now to meet! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love. 

Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 

SALEMENES. 

My sister! courage : 
Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

ZARINA. 

I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

SALEMENES. 

Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes. 
zarina. 
Alone with him! How many a year has past, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart! 
He loved me not: yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were mutual ! 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
Nor look. Yet he was soft of voice and aspect — 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Zarina ! 

ZARINA. 

No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 

That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 

And things which make them longer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

T is too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let 's not reproach — 

That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

zarina. 
And first. I ne'er reproach'd you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is most true; 
And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 

Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

zarina. 
Nor hands; but I gave both. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your brother said, 
ft was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with [He hesitates.) 

ZAKINA. 

Our children : it is true. 
I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
Sly heart from all that 's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nor ever will. 
I fain would have them dutiful. 

ZARINA. 

I cherish 
Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

SARDANAPALUS, 

Deem no I 
i have not done you justice, rather make them 



3.6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Resemble your own line, than their own sire. 
I trust them with you— to you: fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

Of this night's tumults? 

ZARINA. 

I had half-forgotten, 
And could have welcomed any grief, save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The throne — I say it not in fear— but 't is 
In peril; they perhaps may never mount it: 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeath it them; 
but if I fail, then they must win it back 
bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted dowu my royalty. 

ZARINA. 

They ne'er 
Shall know from me of aught but what may honour 
Their father's memory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rather let them hear 
The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
If they be in adversity, they 11 learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys! — I could have borne it were I childless. 

ZARINA. 

Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honour him who saved the realm for them, 
So little cared for as his own; and if 

SARDANAPALUS. 

T is lost, all earth will cry out, thank your father! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

ZARINA. 

That they shall never do; but rather honour 

The name of him, who, dying like a king, 

In his last hours did more for his own memory, 

Than many monarchs in a lengih of days, 

Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our annals draw perchance unto their close; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

ZARINA. 

Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And who are they ? 
A slave, who loves from passion — I '11 not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

ZARINA. 

Who loves. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And pardons? 

ZARINA. 

I have never thought of this. 
And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My wife ! 



Now blessings on thee for that word ! 
I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 
These slaves, whom 1 have nurtured, pamper'd, fed, 
And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in their man- 
sions — 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee: 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful. This is true, yet monstrous. 

ZARINA. 

Tis 
Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And good ones make 
Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

ZARINA. 

Then reap 
The honey, nor inquire whence 't is derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My life insures me that. How long, bethink you, 

Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal: 

That is, where mortals are, not where they must be? 

ZARINA. 

I know not. But yet live for my — that is, 
Your children's sake ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 
I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be — let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others 
(This even rebellion must avouch); yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails him nothing; he hath found it, 
But 't is not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet; nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

ZARINA. 

Oh! if thou hast at length 
Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together. 
And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we '11 find 
A world out of our own — and be more blest 
Than T have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 



SARDANAPALUS. 3*7 




I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 


Enter Salemenes. 


SALEMENES. 


Are ended.. Yet, I dread thy nature will 


I must part ye — 


Grieve more above the blighten name and ashes 


The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 


Which once were mightiest iu Assyria — than 


ZARINA. 


But I grow womanish again, and must not; 


Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 


I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 


Instants so high and blest ? 


Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 


SALEMENES. 


I do not bid thee not to shed them — 't were 


Blest ! 


Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 


ZARINA. 


Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 


He hath been 


But let me not behold them ; they nnman me 


So gentle with me that I cannot think 


Here when I had re-mann'd myself. My brother, 


Of quitting. 


Lead her away. 


SALEMENES. 


ZARINA. 


So— this feminine farewell 


Oh, God ! I never shall 


Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 


Behold him more ! 


I thought as much, and yielded against all 


salemenes (striving to conduct her). 


My better bodings. But it must not be. 


Nay, sister, I must be obey'd. 


ZARINA. 


ZARINA. 


Not be? 


I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 


SALEMENES. 


What, shall he die alone ? — / live alone? 


Remain, and perish 


SALEMENES. 


ZARINA. 


He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 


With my husband — 


SALEMENES. 


ZARINA. 


And children. 


That 's false ! I knew he lived, 


ZARINA. 




Alas ! 


And lived upon his image — let me go I 


SALEMENES. 


salemenes (conducting her off the stage). 


Hear me, sister, like 


Nay, then, I must use some fraternal force, 


My sister : — all 's prepared to make your safety 


Which you will pardon. 


Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes. 
'T is not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but 't is a point of state : 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 


ZARINA. 

Never. Help me ! Oh ! 


Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 


The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush 

ZARINA. 


SALEMENES. 


Nay — then all is lost again, 


Ah ! do not name it. 


If that this moment is not gain'd. 


SALEMENES. 


ZARINA. 


Well, then, mark me : when 


My brain turns — 


They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 


My eyes fail — where is he ? [She faints. 


Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 


sardanapalus (advancing). 


The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 


No — set her down : 


Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 


She 's dead — and you have slain her. 


ZARINA. 


SALEMENES. 


But could not I remain, alone ? 


T is the mere 


SALEMENES. 


Faintness of o'er-wrought passion : in the air 


What ! leave 


She will recover. Pray, keep back — [Aside.] I must 


Your children, with two parents and yet orphans — 


Avail myself of this sole moment to 


Tn a strange land — so young, so distant? 


Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 


ZARINA. 


1' the royal galley on the river. 


No— 


[Salemenes bears her off. 


My heart will break. 


SARDANAPALUS (solus). 


SALEMENES. 


This too — 


Now you know all — decide. 


And this too must I suffer — I, who never 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Inflicted purposely on human hearts 


Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 


A voluntary pang ! But that is false — 


Must yield awhile to this necessity. 


She loved me, and I loved her. Fatal passion ! 


Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 


Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 


You save the better part of what is left 


Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 


To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 


I must pay dearly for the desolation 


As yet beat in these kingdoms. 


Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 


SALEMENES. 


But thee, I should have been an unopposed 


The time presses. 


Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulphs 


SARDANAPALUS. 


A single deviation from the track 


Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 


Of human duties leads even those who claim 



3i8 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


The homage of mankind as their born due, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 


In the hour 




Of man's adversity all things grow daring 


Enter Myrrha. t 


Against the falling ; but as I am not 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Quite fallen, nor now disposed to bear reproaches, 


You here ! Who call'd you? 


Perhaps because I merit them too often, 

Let us then part while peace is still between us. 


MYRRHA. 


MYRRHA. 


No one — but I heard 


Part ! 


Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And thought 


Have not all past human beings parted, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And must not all the present one day part ? 


It forms no portion of your duties 


MYRRHA. 


To enter here till sought for. 


Why ? 


MYRRHA. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Though 1 might, 


For your safety, which I will have look'd to. 


Perhaps, recal some softer words of yours 


With a strong escort to your native land ; 


(Although they too were chiding), which reproved me, 


And such gifts as, if you have not been all 


Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 


A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 


Resisting my own wish and your injunction 


MYRRHA. 


To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 


1 pray you talk not thus. 


Uncall'd for : I retire. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


The queen is gone : 


Yet, stay — being here. 


You need not shame to follow. I would fall 


I pray you pardon me ; events have sour'd me 


Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 


Till I wax peevish— heed it not : I shall 


MYRRHA. 


Soon be myseif again. 


And I no pleasure but in parting not. 


MYRRHA. 


You shall not force me from you. 


I wait with patience, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


What I shall see with pleasure. 


Think well of it— 


SARDANAPALUS. 


It soon may be too late. 


Scarce a moment 


MYRRHA. 


Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 


So let it be ; 


Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 


For then you cannot separate me from you. 


MYRRHA. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Ah! 


And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


Wherefore do you start ? 


I? 


MYRRHA. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Did I do so ? 


You spoke of your abasement. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


'T was well you enter' d by another portal, 


And I feel it 


Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her ! 


Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 


MYRRHA. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


I know to feel for her. 


Then fly from it. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


That is too much, 


T will not recal the past— 


And beyond nature — 't is nor mutual, 


'T will not restore my honour, nor my heart. 


Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 


No— here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 


Nor she aught but 

MYRRHA. 


I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 


Your lot be different, I '11 not weep, but share it. 


Despise the favourite slave ? 


You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 


Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 


Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 


And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 


And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 


Those words 


MYRRHA. 


MYRRHA. 

Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 


Were vou the lord of twice tea thousand worlds — 


As vou are like to lose the one you sway'd — 


Re in the past acts you were pleased to praise 


I did abase myself as much in being 

Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 


This very night, and in my further bearing, 


Deside, wherever you are borne by fate. 


Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


I am content ; and, trusting in my cause, 


You talk it well 


Think we may yet be victors, and return 


MYRRHA. 


To peace — the only \ictory I covet. 


And truly. 


To me war is no glory— couquest no 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3f 9 



Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right, 

Sits heavier ou my heart than all the wrongs 

These men would how me down with. Never, never 

Can I forget this night, even should I live 

To add it to the memory of others. 

T thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 

An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 

A green spot amidst desert centuries, 

On which the future would turn back and smile, 

And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 

Recal Sardauapalus' golden reign. 

I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 

And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 

I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 

Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 

My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha; 

[He kisses her. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ! 
They shall have both, but uever thee! 

MYRRHA. 

No, never ! 
Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That s great or glittering : kingdoms fall — hosts yield- 
Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loves without self-love ! 'T is here — now prove it. 

Enter Salemenes. 

SALEMENES. 

I sought you. — How! she here again? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Return not 
Noiv to reproof : methiuks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

SALEMENES. 

The only woman whom it much imports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen 's embark'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And well ? say that much. 

SALEMENES. 

Yes. 
Her transient weakness has past o'er; at least, 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
Upon the palace towers, as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight ; 
Rut she said nothing. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Would I felt no more 
Than she has said. 

SALEMENES. 

'T is now too late to feel ! 
Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 
Ry their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been join'd by other satraps. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What ! snore rebels ? 
Let us be first, then. 



SALEMENES. 

That were hardly prudent 
Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I 've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and pursuit too : but, till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I detest 
That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not— 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them, 
Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge ! 

SALEMENES. 

You talk like a young soldier. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

SALEMENES. 

You must spare 
To expose your life too hastily; 't is not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whoie war turns upon.it — with it; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then let us end both! 
T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong either; 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[A trumpet sounds without. 

SALEMENES. 

Hark! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

SALEMENES. 

And your wound ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

T is bound — 
T is heal'd— I had forgotten it. Away! 
A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper : 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

SALEMENES. 

Now, may none this hour 
Strike with a better aim ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay, if we conquer; 
But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon them ! 
[Trumpet sounds again. 

SALEMENES. 

I am with you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 

[Exeunt. 



320 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The same Hall of the palace. 

Myrrha and Balea. 

myrrha (at a window). 
The day at last has broken. What a night 
Hath usher'd it! How beautiful in heaven! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Not yet resolved to separate elements. — 
"T is warring still! And can the sun so rise, 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like, we almost deem it permanent; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, t is so transiently 
Scatter' d along the eternal vault : and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamour) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling. 
Which our internal, restless agony 
Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

BALEA. 

You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 
The sunrise which may be our last? 

MYRRHA. 

It is 
Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more, 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Gome, look upon it, 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

BALEA. 

As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
He sway'd. 

MYRRHA. 

He sways it now far more, then ; never 
Had earthly monarch half the peace and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 



BALEA. 

Surely he is a god ! 

MYRRHA. 

So we Greeks deem too ; 
And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

BALEA. 

Hark ! heard you not a sound? 

MYRRHA. 

No, 't was mere fancy ; 
They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

BALEA. 

But they reach'd 
Thus far before. 

MYRRHA. 

Yes, by surprise, and were 
Beat back by valour ; now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

BALEA. 

May they 
Prosper ! 

MYRRHA. 

That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly ! 

BALEA. 

It is said the king's demeanour 
In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 

MYRRHA. 

T is easy to astonish or appal 

The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves : 

But he did bravely. 

BALEA. 

Slew he not Beleses? 
I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

MYRRHA. 

The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
In fight, as he had spared in him his peril, 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

BALEA. 

Hark! 

MYRRHA. 

You are right ; some steps approach, but slowly. 

Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded, with 
a broken Javelin in his Side : they seat him upon 
one of the Couches wliicli furnish the apartment. 



Oh, Jove 



BALEA. 

Then all is over. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



39, 



SALEMENES. 

That is false. 
Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

MYRRHA. 

Spare him — he 's none : a mere court butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Let him Jive on, then. 

MYRRHA. 

So wilt thou, I trust. 

SALEMENES. 

I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here? 

SOLDIER. 

By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, 
You fell and fainted ; 't was his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

SALEMENES. 

T was not ill done : 
For, seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 't is vain. 
I feel it ebbing ! 

MYRRHA. 

Let me see the wound ; 
I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'T is part of our instruction. War being constant, 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

SOLDIER. 

Best extract 
The javelin. 

MYRRHA. 

Hold! no, no, it cannot be. 

SALEMENES. 

I am sped, then ! 

MYRRHA. 

With the blood that fast must follow 
The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

SALEMENES. 

And I not death. Where was the king when you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 

SOLDIER. 

Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter' d back. 

SALEMENES. 

Whom heard ye 
Named next to the command? 

SOLDIER. 

I did not hear. 

SALEMENES. 

Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my last request 
That Zames take my post until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

SOLDIER. 

But, prince 

SALEMENES. 

Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 
A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding! 
[Exe* ' the Soldiers 

MYRRHA. 

Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 



So soon resign thee ? 

SALEMENES. 

Gentle Myrrha, 't is 
The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this; 
As 't is, I have not outlived them. 

MYRRHA. 

You wax paler. 

SALEMENES. 

Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth, 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My best brother ! 

SALEMENES. 

And the battle 
Is lost? 

sardanapalus (despondingly). 
You see me here. 

SALEMENES. 

I 'd rather see you thus ■' 
[He draws out the tveapon from the wound and dies. 
sardanapalus. 
And thus I will be seen, unless the succour, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

MYRRHA. 

Did you not 
Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief? 

sardanapalus. 
I did. 

MYRRHA. 

Where s Zames ? 
sardanapalus. 
Dead. 



And Altada? 

sardanapalus. 
Dying. 

MYRRHA. 

Pania ? Sfero ? 
sardanapalus. 
Pania yet lives; but Sfero s fled, or captive. 
I am alone. 

MYRRHA. 

And is all lost? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our walls, 
Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

MYRRHA. 

I thought 't was the intent 
Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succours. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I over-ruled him. 

MYRRHA. 

Well, the fault 's a brave one. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 
The sword and shield, the soul redeeming honour, 

To call back But I will not weep for thee; 

Thou shalt be mourn'd for as thou wouldst be mourn'd 

It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this life 

Believing that I could survive what thou 

Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 

If I redeem it, I. will give thee blood 

Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 

(The tears of all the good are thine already). 

If not we meet again soon, if the spirit 

Within us lives beyond: — thou readest mine, 

And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 

That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 

[Embraces the body. 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now bear 
The body hence. 

SOLDIER. 

Where? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To my proper chamber. 
Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers ivith the body o/Salemenes. 

Enter Pania. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well, Pania! have you placed the guards, and issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

PANIA. 

Sire, I have obey'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 

PANIA. 

Sire? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and has 

A question as an answer to Jus question, 

It is a portent. What, they are dishearten'd? 

PANIA. 

The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
Have made them 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rage — not droop — it should have been. 
We 'II find the means to rouse them. 

PANIA. 

Such a loss 
Might sadden even a victory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Alas! 
Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, and we 
Have those without will break their way through hosts, 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
A palace — not a prison nor a fortress. 



Enter an Officer, hastily. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 

OFFICER. 

I dare i 

SARDANAPALUS. 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand 



Dare not? 



That "s strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 
pania- 

Proceed, thou hearest. 

OFFICER. 

The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the bulwark. 

PANIA. 

That 's a black augury! it has been said 
For ages, that « The city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe.» 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall? 

OFFICER. 

About 
Some twenty stadii. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And all this is left 
Pervious to the assailants? 

OFFICER. 

For the present 
The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That shall be never. 
Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My father's house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

PANIA. 

With your sanction 
I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

About it straight, 
And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Tieport of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

MYRRHA. 

Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They are not my subjects, girl, 
And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 

MYRRHA. 

I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I am past the fear of portents : they can tell me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight: 
Despair anticipates such things. 

MYRRHA. 

Despair? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Piesolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 



SARDANAPALUS. 323 


Word than this is to give it utterance. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


But what are -words to us ? we have well nigh done 


Well, then, 


With them and all things. 


Swear that you will obey when I shall give 


MYRRHA. 


The signal. 


Save one deed — the last 


PANIA. 


And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 


With a heavy but true heart, 


Of all that was — or is — or is to he — 


I promise. 


The only thing common to all mankind, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


So different in their hirths, tongues, sexes, natures, 


'T is enough. Now order here 


Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 


Faggots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 


Without one point of union, save in this, 


Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark- 


To which we tend, for which we 're born, and thread 


Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 


The labyrinth of mystery call'd life. 


And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile; 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Bring frankincense and myrrh too, for it is 


Our clew being well nigh wound out, let 's be cheerful. 


For a great sacrifice I build the pyre; 


They who have nothing more to fear, may well 


And heap them round yon throne. 


Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 


PANIA. 


As children at discover'd bugbears. 


My lord ! 




SARDANAPALUS. 


Re-enter Pania. 


I have said it, 




And you have sworn. 

PANIA. 


pania. 

Tis 


And could keep my faith 
Without a vow. [Exit Pania. 

MYRRHA. 


As was reported : I have order'd there 


A double guard, withdrawing from the wall, 


Where it was strongest, the required addition 


What mean you? 

SARDANAPALUS. 


To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


You shall know 


You have done your duty faithfully, and as 


Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 


My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 


Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 


Pania, returning with a Herald. 


[Gives a key. 


PANIA. 


It opens to a secret chamber, placed 


My king, iu going forth upon my duty, 


Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 


This herald has beeu brought before me, craving 


Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 


An audience. 


Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Along its golden frame — as bearing for 


Let him speak. 


A time what late was Salemeues.) Search 


HERALD. 


The secret covert to which this will lead you; 


The King Arbaces 

SARDANAPALUS. 


T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 


And your companions : there 's enough to load ye, 


What, crowu'd already? — But proceed. 


Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 


HERALD. 


And all the inmates of the palace, of 


Beleses, 


Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 


The anointed high-priest 

SARDANAPALUS. 


Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleasure, 


And now to serve for safety, and embark. 


Of what god, or demon? 


The river 's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 


With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 


(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 


You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 


Fly ! and be happy ! 


PANIA. 


HERALD. 


Under your protection ! 


And Satrap Ofratanes 


So you accompany your faithful guard. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Why, he is ours. 


No, Pania! that must not be , get thee hence, 


herald (showing a ring). 


And leave me to my fate. 


Be sure that he is now 


PANIA. 


In the camp of the conquerors : behold 


'T is the first time 


His signet ring. 


I ever disobey'd : but now 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


T is his. A worthy triad ! 


So all men 


Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 


Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 


To see one treachery the less : this man 


Apes Treason from without ! Question no further • 


Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 


'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 


Proceed. 


Oppose it ? thou ! 


HERALD. 


PANIA. 


They offer thee thy life, and freedom 


But yet — not yet. 


Of choice to single out a residence 



3 24 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace; but on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

sardanapalus {ironically). 

The generous victors ! 

HERALD. 

I -wait the answer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Answer, slave ! How long 
Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

HERALD. 

Since they were free. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 
Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' liues, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 
PANIA. 

I never yet obey'd 
Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty -with treasonable gore ; 
' Put him to rest without. 

HERALD. 

A single word : 
My office, king, is sacred. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And what 's mine ? 
That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down? 

HERALD. 

I but obey'd my orders, 
At the same peril, if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So, there are 
New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

HERALD. 

My life waits your breath. 
Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — yours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

He 's right. — Let him go free. — My life's last act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cup from a table near 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think of me; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

HERALD. 

I thank you doubly for my life, and this 

Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 

But must I bear no answer ? 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,— I ask 
An hour's truce to consider. 

HERALD. 

But an hour's? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

HERALD. 

I shall not fail 
To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And, hark! a word more. 

HERALD. 

I shall not forget it, 
Whate'er it be. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Commend me to Beleses ; 
And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

HERALD. 

Where ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At Babylon. 
At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

HERALD. 

I shall obey you to the letter. [Exit Herald. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Pania! — 
Now, my good Pania ! — quick! with what I order'd. 

PANIA. 

My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter and form a Pile about the 
Throne, etc. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Higher, my good soldiers, 
And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies 1 

PANIA. 

Ay, for a kingdom's. 
I understand you now. 

SVRDANAPALUS. 

And blame me? 

PANIA. 

No— 
Le me but fire the pile and share it with you. 

MYRRHA. 

That duty 's mine. 

PANIA. 

A woman's ! 

MYRRHA. 

'T is the soldier's 
Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover? 



SARDANAPALUS. 



3^5 



PANIA. 

T is most strange ! 

MYRRHA. 

But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it. 
In the mean time, live thou. — Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

PANIA. 

I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Too many far have heralded 
Me to the dust already. Get thee hence; 
Enrich thee. 

PANIA. 

And live wretched ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think upon 
Thy vow; — t is sacred and irrevocable. 

PANIA. 

Since it is so, farewell. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Search well my chamber, 
Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

PANIA. 

That royal hand ! 
Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you! 

[The Soldiers and Pania throng round him 
kissing his hand and the liem ofliis robe. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My best! my last friends! 
Let's not unman each other — part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy: trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied, or far more for what 
Is past than present; — for the future, 'tis 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — farewell. 

[Exeunt Pania and the Soldiers. 

MYRRHA. 

These men were honest: it is comfort still 
That our last looks shall be on loving faces. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And lovely ones, my beautiful! — but hear me ! 
If at this moment, for we now are on 
The brink, thou feel'st. an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 



For yielding to thy nature: and there 's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

MYRRHA. 

Shall I light 
One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without, 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Do so. Is that thy answer? 

MYRRHA. 

Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrh j. 

SARDANAPALUS (solus). 

She's firm. My fathers! whom I will rejoin, 

It may be, purified by death from some 

Of the gross stains of too material being, 

I would not leave your ancient first abode 

To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 

If I have not kept your inheritance 

As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 

Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 

Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 

In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 

To you in that absorbing element, 

Which most personifies the soul, as leaving 

The least of matter unconsumed before 

Its fiery working: — and the light of this 

Most royal of funeral pyres shall be 

Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 

A beacon in the horizon for a day, 

And then a mount of ashes, but a light 

To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 

Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 

A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 

Sweep empire after empire, like this first 

Of empires, into nothing; but even then 

irhall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 

A problem few dare imitate, and none 

Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 

Which led to such a consummation. 

Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in her Hand, 
and a Cup in the other. 

MYRRHA. 

Lo! 
I 've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And the cup? 

MYRRHA. 

T is my country's custom to 
Make a libation to the gods. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And mine 
To make libations amongst men. I 've not 
Forgot the custom; and, although alone, 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after drink- j 
ing and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop f 
falls, exclaims — 

Aud this libation 
is for the excellent Beleses. 

MYRRHA. 

Why 
Dwells thy mind rather upon that man s name 
Than on his mate's in villany? 



326 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

The one 
Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet: 
Rut I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 
My Myrrha! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly? 

MYRRHA. 

And dost thou think 
A Greek girl dare not do for love that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then 
We but await the signal. 

MYRRHA. 

It is long 
In sounding. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 

MYRRHA. 

Embrace, but not the last; there is one more. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 

MYRRHA. 

And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 

Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, 

Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Say it. 

MYRRHA. 

It is, that no kind hand will gather 
The dust of both into one urn. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The better! 
Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace, 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in her brick mountains o'er dead kings, 
Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 
Re for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis: 
So mucb for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record ! 

MYRRHA. 

Then farewell, thou earth! 
And loveliest spot of earth! farewell', Ionia! 
Re thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And that! 

MYRRHA. 

Is yours. 

[The trumpet o/Pania sounds without. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Hark ! 

MYRRHA. 

Now ! 
SARDANAPALUS. 

Adieu, Assyria! 
I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 



I satiated thee with peace and joys; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing, 
Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile. 

Now, Myrrha! 

MYRRHA. 

Art thou ready ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

As the torch iu thy grasp. 

[Myrrha fires the pile. 

MYRRHA. 

'T is fired ! I come. 

[As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself 
into the flames, the Curtain falls. 



NOTES. 



Note i. Page 291, line 19. 

And thou, uiy own Ionian Myrrha. 
« The Ionian name had been still more comprehen- 
sive, having included the Achaians and the Boeotians, 
who, together with those to whom it was afterwards 
confined, would make nearly the whole of the Greek 
nation; and among the orientals it was always the ge- 
neral name for the Greeks." — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. 
P- '99- 

Note 2. Page 294, lines 1 — 4- 

« Sardanapalus, 

The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 

In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 

Eat, drink , and love ; the rest's not worth a fillip. » 

« For this expedition he took not only a small chosen 
body of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the 
first day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to 
have been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. 
The fortifications, in their magnitude and extent, still 
in Arrian's time, bore the character of greatness, which 
the Assyrians appear singularly to have affected in works 
of the kind. A monument representing Sardanapalus 
was found there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian 
characters, of course in the old Assyrian language, which 
the Greeks, whether well or ill, interpreted thus : « Sar- 
danapalus, son of Anacnydaraxes, in one day founded 
Anchialus and Tarsus. Eat, drink, play : all other 
human joys are not worth a fillip. » Supposing this 
version nearly exact (for Arrian says it was not quite so), 
whether the purpose has not been to invite to civil order 
a people disposed to turbulence, rather than to recom- 
mend immoderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be 
questioned. What, indeed, could be the object of a 
king of Assyria in founding such towns in a country so 
distant from his capital, and so divided from it by an 
immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains ? 
and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once in 
circumstances to abandon themselves to the intemperate 
joys which their prince has been supposed to have recom- 
mended, is not obvious ; but it may deserve observation 
that, in that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, 
ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander, yet 
barely named in history, at this day astonish the adven- 
turous traveller by their magnificence and elegance. 
Amid the desolation which, under a singularly barbarian 
government, has for so many centuries been daily 
spreading in the finest countries of the globe, whether 



THE TWO FOSCATU. 



32 7 



more from soil and climate, or from opportunities for 
commerce, extraordinary means must have been found 
for communities to flourish there, whence it may seem 
that the measures of Sardanapalus were directed by 
juster views than have been commonly ascribed to him; 
but that monarch having been the last of a dynasty, 



ended by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would 
follow of course from the policy of his successors and 
their partisans. 

«The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sarda- 
napalus is striking in Diodorus's account of him.» — 
Mitford's Greece, vol. ix, pp. 3n, 3 12, and 3i3. 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



The father softens, but the governor 's resolved. 

CRITIC. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 
Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, Senator. 

Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, Attend- 
ants, etc., etc. 

WOMAN. 

Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 



Scene — The Ducal Palace, Venice. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

LOREDANO. 

Where is the prisoner ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Reposing from 
The Question. 

LOREDANO. 

The hour 's past — fix'd yesterday 
For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recal. 

BARBARIGO. 

Nay, let him profit by 
A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 

loredano. 
Well ! 

BARBARIGO. 

I yield not to you in love of justice, 
Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race; 



But the poor wretch has suffer'd beyond nature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

LOREDANO. 

Without owning 
His crime. 

BARBARIGO. 

Perhaps without committing any. 
But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

LOREDANO. 

We shall see. 

BARBARIGO. 

You, Loredano, 
Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

LOREDANO. 

How far? 

BARBARIGO. 

To extermination. 

LOREDANO. 

When they are 
Extinct, you may say this. — Let 's in to council, 

BARBARIGO. 

Yet pause — the number of our colleagues is not 
Complete yet; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

LOREDANO. 

And the chief judge, the Doge? 

BARBARIGO. 

No— he 
With more than Roman fortitude is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

LOREDANO. 

True — true — 
His last. 

BARBARIGO. 

Will nothing move you? 

LOREDANO. 

Feels lie, think you ? 

BARBARIGO. 

He shows it not. 

LOREDANO. 

I have mark'd that — the wretch ! 

BARBARIGO. 

But yesterday, I hear, on his return 






328 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
The old man fainted. 

LOREDANO. 

It begins to work, then. 

BARBARIGO. 

The work is half your own. 

LOREDANO. 

And should be all mine- 
My father and my uncle are no more. 

BARBARIGO. 

I have read their epitaph, which says they died 
By poison. 

LOREDANO. 

When the Doge declared that he 
Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 

BARBARIGO. 

A -wretched one. 

LOREDANO. 

What should they be who make 
Orphans ? 

BARBARIGO. 

But did the Doge make you so? 

LOREDANO. 

Yes. 

BARBARIGO. 

What solid proofs ? 

LOREDANO. 

When princes set themselves 
To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

BARBARIGO. 

But you will move by law? 

LOREDANO. 

By all the laws 
Which he would leave us. 

BARBARIGO. 

They are such in this 
Our state as render retribution easier 
Thau 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have written in your books of commerce 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles), 
« Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle ?» 

LOREDANO. 

It is written thus. 

BARBARIGO. 

And will you leave it unerased? 

LOREDANO. 

Till balanced. 

BARBARIGO. 

And how? 

(Two Senators pass over the stage, as in their way to 
the Hall of the Council of Ten.) 

LOREDANO. 

You see the number is complete. 
Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 

BARBARIGO (solus). 

Follow thee! I have follow'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as <msh 



The waters through them; but this son and sire 

Might move the elements to pause, and yet 

Must I on hardily like them — Oh', would 

I could as blindly and remorselessly!— 

Lo, where he comes! — Be still, my heart! they are 

Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 

For those who almost broke thee? 

Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner, etc. 

GUARD. 

Let him rest. 
Signor, take time. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 
But thou mayst stand reproved. 

GUARD. 

I 11 stand the hazard. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That 's kind : — I meet some pity, but no mercy; 
This is the first. 

GUARD. 

And might be the last, did they 
Who rule behold us. 

barbarigo (advancing to the Guard). 
There is one who does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser; though the hour is past, 
Wait their last summons — I am of «the Ten,» 
And waiting for that summons sanction you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds 
We '11 in together. — Look well to the prisoner! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

What voice is that? — 't is Barbarigo's! Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

True, 
He judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And his son's. I 'm faint ; 
Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbarigo. 

barbarigo (to the Guard). 
Let him approach. I must not speak with him 
Further than thus; I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. 

[Exit Barbarigo. 

[Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the window. 

guard. 

There, sir, 't is 
Open — How feel you? 

JACOPO foscari. 

Like a boy— Oh Venice ! 
guard. 
And your limbs? 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



32 9 



JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure in the pride of strength; 
While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 
Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip the audacious briue, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, 
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As show'd that I had search'd the deep ; exulting, 
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep] 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 

GUARD. 

Be a man now ; there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

jacopo foscari {looking from the lattice). 
My beautiful, my own, 
My only Venice — this is breath! Thy breeze, 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
The very winds feel native to my veins, 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Gandiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

GUARD. 

I see the colour comes 
Pack to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to bear 
What more may be imposed! — I dread to think on 't. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

They will not banish me again ? — No — no, 
Let them wring on; I am strong yet. 

GUARD. 

Confess, 
And the rack will be spared you. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I confess'd 
Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. 

GUARD. 

And the third time will slay you. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Let them do so, 
So I be buried in my birth-place : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

GUARD. 

And can you so much love the soil which hates you? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 



I ask no more than a Venetian grave — 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 

Enter an Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Bring in the prisoner! 

GUARD. 

Signor, you hear the order. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 't is 

The third time they have tortured me : — then lend me 

Thine arm. [To the Guard. 

OFFICER. 

Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 
Be nearest to your person. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

You ! — you are he 
Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs— 
Away! — I 'II walk alone. 

OFFICER. 

As you please, signor; 
The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council, when 
They 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Bade thee stretch me on their horrid engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now; 
The time will come they will renew that order. 
But keep off from me till t is issued. As 
I look upon thy hands, my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 

And the cold drops strain through my brow as if 

But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
How looks my father? 

OFFICER. 

With his wonted aspect. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

So doth the earth, and sky, the blue of ocean, 

The brightness of our city, and her domes, 

The mirth of her Piazza, even now 

Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 

Even here, into these chambers of the unknowu 

Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 

Judged and destroy'd in silence — all things wear 

The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 

Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 

Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, etc 

Enter Memmo and another Senator. 

MEMMO. 

He 's gone — we are too late : — think you « the Ten » 
Will sit for any length of time to-day? 

SENATOR. 

They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
Persisting in his first avowal; but 
More I kuow not. 

MEMMO. 

And that is much; the secrets 
Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

SENATOR. 

Save the wonted rumours, 
Which (like the tales of spectres that are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings) never have been proved, 

42 



33o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Nor wholly disbelieved : mea know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfalhom'd mysteries. 

MEMMO. 

But with length of time 
We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to he one day of the decemvirs. 

SENATOR. 

Or Doge? 

MEMMO. 

Why, no, not if I can avoid it. 

SENATOR. 

T is the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain'd by noble aspirants. 

MEMMO. 

To such 
I leave it; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited: I'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial « Ten, » 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here? the wife of Foscari ? 

Enter Marina, with a female attendant. 
marina. 
What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are two; 
But they are senators. 

MEMMO. 

Most noble lady, 
Command us. 

MARINA. 

/ command .' Alas ! my life 
Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

MEMMO. 

I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

marina (fiercely). 
True — none dare answer here save on the rack, 

Or question save those 

memmo (interrupting her). 

High-born dame ! bethink thee 
Where thou now art. 

marina. 
Where I now am ! — It was 
My husband's father's palace. 

MEMMO. 

The Duke's palace. 
marina. 
And his son's prison; — true, I have not forgot it; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

MEMMO. 

Be calm. 

marina (looking up towards heaven). 
I am ; but oh, thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world ? 

MEMMO. 

Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

MARINA. 

He is, 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator, 
Speak not of that; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake, 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had: they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit: 
Will he condemn him'! 



MEMMO. 

I trust not. 

MARINA. 

But if 
He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

MEMMO. 

They can. 

MARINA. 

And with them power and will are one 
In wickedness : — my husband 's lost! 

MEMMO. 

Not so ; 
Justice is judge in Venice. 

MARINA. 

If it were so 
There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons; but « the Ten's » is quicker, 
And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry within. 

SENATOR. 

Hark! 

MEMMO. 

'T was a cry of — 

MARINA. 

No, no; not my husband's — 
Not Foscari's. 

MEMMO. 

The voice was — 

MARINA. 

Not his ; no. 
He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part. 
Not his — not his— he '11 die in silence. 

[A faint groan again within. 

MEMMO. 

What ! 

Again ? 

MARINA. 

His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang which wrung a groan from him. 

SENATOR. 

And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain in silence ? 

MARINA. 

We all must bear our tortures. I have not 

Left barren the great house of Foscari, 

Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life; 

I have endured as much in giving life 

To those who will succeed them, as they can 

In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs ; 

And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd, 

But did not, for my hope was to bring forth 

Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 

MEMMO. 

All 's silent now. 

MARINA. 

Perhaps all 's over ; but 
I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

MEMMO. 

How now, friend, what seek you? 







THE TWO FOSCARI. 33 i 


OFFICER. 


Thought that « the Ten » had even this touch of pity, 


A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 


Or would permit assistance to the sufferer. 


[Exit Officer. 


SENATOR. 


MEMMO. 


Pity! Is 't pity to recal to feeling 


Lady, 


The wretch too happy to escape to death 


'T were better to retire. 


By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 


senator (offering to assist her). 


Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 


I pray thee do so. 


MEMMO. 


MARINA. 


I marvel they condemn him not at once. 


Off ! J will tend him. 


SENATOR. 


MEMMO. 


That 's not their policy: they 'd have him live, 


You ! Remember, lady ! 


Because he fears not death; and banish him, 


Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 


Because all earth, except his native land, 


Except to « the Ten,» and their familiars. 


To him is one wide prison, and each breath 


MARINA. 


Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 


Well, 


Consuming but not killing. 


I know that none who enter there return 


MEMMO, 


As they have enter'd — many never; but 


Circumstance 


They shall not balk my entrance. 


Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 


MEMMO. 


SENATOR. 


Alas! this 


None, save the letter; which, he says, was written, 


Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse, 


Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 


And worse suspense. 


That it would fall into the senate's hands, 


MARINA. 


And thus he should be reconvey'd to Venice. 


Who shall oppose me? 


MEMMO. 


MEMMO. 


But as a culprit. 


They 


SENATOR- 


Whose duty 't is to do so. 


Yes, but to his country: 


MARINA. 


And that was all he sought — so he avouches. 


'T is their duty 


MEMMO. 


To trample on all human feelings, all 


The accusation of the bribes was proved. 


Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 


SENATOR. 


The fiends, who will one day requite them in 


Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 


Variety of torturing! Yet I '11 pass. 


Has been annull'd by the death-bed coufession 


MEMMO. 


Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 


It is impossible. 


Chief of « the Ten.» 


MARINA. 


MEMMO. 


That shall be tried. 


Then why not clear him? 


Despair defies even despotism : there is 


SENATOR. 


That in my heart would make its way through hosts 


That 


With levell'd spears; and think you a few jailors 


They ought to answer; for it is well known 


Shall put me from my path? Give me, then, way; 


That Almoro Donato, as I said, 


This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 


Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 


Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 


MEMMO. 


And they shall hear this! 


There must be more in this strange process than 


MEMMO. 


The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 


It will only serve 


But here come two of « the Ten ;» let us retire. 


More to exasperate his judges. 


[Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 


MARINA. 

What 


Enter Loredano and Barrarigo. 


Are judges who give way to anger? they 


barbarigo (addressing Loredano). 


Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 


That were too much : believe me, 't was not meet 


[Exit Marina. 


The trial should go further at this moment. 


senator. 


LOREDANO. 


Poor lady! 


And so the Council must break up, and Justice 


MEMMO. 


Pause in her full career, because a woman 


'T is mere desperation ; she 


Breaks in on our deliberations ! 


Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 


BARBARIGO. 


SENATOR. 


No, 


And 


That 's not the cause; you saw the prisoner's state. 

LOREDANO. 


Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 


But, see, the officer returns. 




And had he not recover'd? 


[The officer passes over the stage with another person. 


BARBARIGO. 


MEMMO. 


To relapse 


I hardly 


Upon the least renewal. 



-. 
332 BYRON'S 


WORKS. j 


LOREDANO. 


His state descend to his children, as it must, 


T was not tried. 


If he die unattainted? 


BARBARIGO. 


BARBARIGO. 


'T is vain to murmur; the majority 


War with them too? 


In council were against you. 


LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 


With all their house, till theirs or mine are nothing. 


Thanks to you, sir, 


BARBARIGO. 


And the old ducal dotard, who comhined 


And the deep agony of his pale wife, 


The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 


And the repress'd convulsion of the high 


BARBARIGO. 


And princely brow of his old father, which 


I am a judge; but must confess that part 


Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 


Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 


Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped tiway 


And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 


In stern serenity; these moved you not? 


Makes me wish 


[Exit LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 


He 's silent in his hate, as Foscari 


What? 


Was in his suffering; and the poor wretch moved me 


BARBARIGO. 


More by his silence than a thousand outcries 


That you would sometimes feel, 


Gould have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 


As I do always. 


When his distracted wife broke through into 


LOREDANO. 


The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 


Go lo ! you 're a child , 


What we could scarcely look upon, long used 


Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 


To such sights. I must think no more of this, 


About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 


Lest I forget in this compassion for 


And melted by a tear — a precious judge 


Our foes their former injuries, and lose 


For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 


The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 


Be partner in my policy! 


For him and me; but mine would be content 


BARBARIGO. 


With lesser retribution than he thirsts for, 


He shed 


And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 


No tears. 


To milder thoughts ; but, for the present, Foscari 


LOREDANO. 


Has a short hourly respite, granted at 


lie cried out twice. 


The instance of the elders of the Council, 


BARBARIGO. 


Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 


A saint had done so, 


The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come : 


Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 


How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 


At such inhuman artifice of pain 


To look on them again in this extremity: 


As was forced on him : but he did not cry 


I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 


For pity — not a word nor groan escaped him; 


[Exit BARBARIGO. 


And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
But wrung from pangs, and follow'd by no prayers. 






LOREDANO. 


ACT II. 


He mutter'd many limes between his teeth, 




But inarticulately. 


SCENE I. 


BARBARIGO. 




That I heard not ; 


A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 


You stood more near him. 


The Doge and a Senator. 


LOREDANO. 




I did so. 


senator. 


BARBARIGO. 


Is it your pleasure to sign the report 


Methought, 


Now, or postpone it till to-morrow? 


To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy; 


DOGE. 


And were the first to call out for assistance 


Now; 


When he was failing. 


I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 


LOREDANO. 


Merely the signature. Give me the pen— 


I believed that swoon 


[The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 


His last. 


There, signor. 


BARBARIGO. 


senator (looking at the paper). 


And have I not oft heard thee name 


You have forgot ; it is not sign'd. 


His and his father's death your nearest wish? 


doge. 


LOREDANO. 


Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 


If he dies innocent, that is to say, 

With his guilt unavow'd, he 11 be lamented. 


To wax more weak with age ! I did not see 


That Iliad dipp'd the pen without effect, 

senator (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 


BARBARIGO. 


paper before the Doge). 


What! wouldst thou slay his memory? 


Your hand, too, shakes, my lord: allow me, thus— 


LOREDANO. 


DOGE. 


Wouldst thou have 


'T is done, I thank you. 



THE TWO FOSCAIU. 333 


SENATOR. 


The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 


Thus the act conlirm'd 


Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 


i By you and by ;< the Teii,» {jives peace to Venice. 


Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 


DOGE. 


[Exit Senator. 


'T is long since she enjoy' d it : may it be 


[The Doge remains in silence. 


As long ere she resume her arms ! 


Enter an Attendant. 


SENATOR. 




'T is almost 


ATTENDANT. 


Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 


Prince ! 


With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 


DOGE. 


The state had need of some repose. 


Say on. 


DOGE. 


ATTENDANT. 


No doubt : 


The illustrious lady Foscan 


I found her queen of ocean, and I leave her 


Requests an audience. 


Lady of Lombardy : it is a comfort 


DOGE. 


That I have added to her diadem 


Bid her enter. Poor 


The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; Crema 


Marina! [Exit Attendant. 


And Dergamo no less are hers : her realm 


[The Doge remains in silence as before. 


By land has grown by thus much in my reign, 


Enter Marina. 


While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 


SENATOR. 


marina. 


T is most true, 


I have ventured, father, on 


And merits all our country's gratitude. 


Your privacy. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


Perhaps so. 


I have none from you, my child. 


SENATOR. 


Command my time, when not commanded by 


Which should be made manifest. 


The state. 


DOGE. 


MARINA. 


I have not complain'd, sir. 


I wish'd to speak to you of him. 


SENATOR. 


DOGE. 


My good lord, forgive me. 


Your husband? 


DOGE. 


MARINA. 


For what ? 


And your son. 


SENATOR. 


DOGE. 


My heart bleeds for you. 


Proceed, my daughter ! 


DOGE. 


MARINA. 


For me, signor ? 


I had obtain'd permission from « the Ten » 


SENATOR. 


To attend my husband for a limited number 


And for your — 


Of hours. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


Stop ! 


You had so. 


SENATOR. 


MARINA. 


It must have way, my lord : 


T is revoked. 


I have too many duties towards you 


DOGE. 


And all your house, for present kindness, 


By whom ? 


Not to feel deeply for your son. 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


« The Ten.» — When we had reached « the Bridge of 


Was this 


Sighs, » 


In your commission ? 


Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 


SENATOR. 


The gloomy guardian of that passage first 


What, my lord ? 


Demurr'd; a messenger was sent back to 


DOGE. 


« The Ten;» but as the court no longer sate, 


This prattle 


And no permission had been given in writing, 


Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 


I was thrust back, with the assurance that 


Return with it to them who sent you. 


Until that high tribunal re-assembled, 


SENATOR. 


The dungeon-walls must still divide us. 


I 


DOGE. 


Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 


True, 


That you would fix an hour for their re-union. 


The form has been omitted in the haste 


DOGE. 


With which the court adjourn'd; and, till it meets, 


Say, when they will — now, even at this moment, 


'T is dubious. 


If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 


MARINA. 


SENATOR. 


Till it meets! and when it meets. 


They would accord some time for your repose. 


They '11 torture him again; and he and I 


DOGE. 


Must purchase, by renewal of the rack, 


I have no repose, that is, none which shall cause 


The interview of husband and of wife, 



334 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The holiest tie heneath the heavens?— Oh God! 
Dost thou see this? 

DOGE. 

Child— child 

MARINA (abruptly). 

Call me not « child !» 
You soon will have no children— you deserve none— 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ! 

DOGE. 

You behold me : 
I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them— I 'd give all 
For him. 

MARINA. 

With less he surely might be saved. 

DOGE. 

That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself, 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same end, 
And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

MARINA. 

But they have crush'd. 

DOGE. 

Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 

MARINA. 

And your son — how long will he live? 

DOGE. 

I trust, 
For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter • 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them — 
He must return. 

MARINA. 

To exile ? 

DOGE. 

I have said it. 

MARINA. 

And can I not go with him ? 

DOGE. 

You well know 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 

By the assembled « Ten ;» and hardly now 

Will be accorded to a third request, 

Since aggravated errors, on the part 

Of your lord, renders them still more austere. 

MARINA. 

Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fiends, 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears, save drops of dotage; wilh long white 



And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, — they council, 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

DOGE. 

You know not 

MARINA. 

I do — I do — and so should you, methiaks — 

That these are demons ; could it be else that 

Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 

Who have lov'd, or talk'd at least of love — have given 

Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 

Upou their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them 

In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 

Or were at least in seeming human, could 

Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 

You, who abet them ? 

DOGE. 

I forgive this, for 
You know not what you say. 

MARINA. 

You know it well, 
And feel it nothing. 

DOGE. 

I have borne so much, 
That words have ceased to shake me. 

MARINA. 

Oh, no doubt ! 
You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh shook 

not; 
And, after that, what are a woman's words? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 

you. 

DOGE. 

Woman ! this clamorous grief of thine, I tell thee, 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

MARINA. 

Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 't is a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

DOGE. 

I must bear these reproaches, though they wrong me. 
Couldst thou but read 

MARINA. 

'T is not upon thy brow, 
Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts; where, then, 
Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 

doge (pointing downwards). 
There ! 

MARINA. 

In the earth ? 

doge. 
To which I am tending : when 
It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
Now, you will know me better. 

MARINA. 

Are you, then, 
Indeed, thus to be pitied? 

doge. 

Pitied ! None 
Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 



THE TWO 


FOSCARI. 335 


As far as / have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 


MARINA. 

Must I then retire ? 


MARINA. 

But for the poor children 
Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save: 
You were the last to bear it. 


DOGE. 

Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your husband, and if not- Well, signor, 

Your pleasure! [To Loredano entering. 


DOGE. 

Would it were so ! 


LOREDANO. 

I bear that of « the Ten.» 


Better for him he never had been born, 

Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonour'd. 

MARINA. 

That 's false! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 


DOGE. 

They 
Have chosen well their envoy. 

LOREDANO. 


More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 


T is their choice 
Which leads me here. 

DOGE. 

It does their wisdom honour, 
And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 


In story or in fable, with a \vorld 
To back his suit. Dishonour'd!— he dishonour'd! 
I tell thee, Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 


LOREDANO. 

We have decided. 

DOGE. 

We? 

LOREDANO. 


'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant!— ye ! 
Did you but love your country like this victim, 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

DOGE. 


« The Ten» in council. 

DOGE. 

What! have they met again, and met without 
Apprizing me? 

LOREDANO. 

They wish'd to spare your feelings, 
No less than age. 


He was 
Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 


DOGE. 

That 's new — when spared they either ? 
I thank them, notwithstanding. 


Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

MARINA. 

That word again? 


LOREDANO. 

You know well 
That they have power to act at their discretion. 


DOGE. 

Has he not been condemn'd? 


With or without the presence of the Doge. 

DOGE. 


MARINA. 

Ts none but guilt so? 


T is some years since I learn'd this, long before 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 


DOGE. 

Time may restore his memory — I would hope so. 


You need not school me, signor : I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 


He was my pride, my but 't is useless now — 


LOREDANO. 


I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : those drops were ominous. 


True, in my father's time; I have heard him and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 


MARINA. 


Your highness may remember them: they both 


I say he 's innocent: and, were he not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 


Died suddenly. 

DOGE. 



In fatal moments ? 

DOGE. 

I shrank not from him : 
But I have other duties than a father's, 
The state would not dispense me from those duties; 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused; 
They must then be fulfiil'd. 

Enter an Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

A message from 
« The Ten. » 

DOGE. 

Who bears it? 

ATTENDANT. 

Noble Loredano. 

DOGE. 

He '.—but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 



And if they did so, better 
So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

LOREDANO. 

No doubt! yet most men like to live their days out. 

DOGE. 

And did not they? 

LOREDANO. 

The grave knows best: they died, 
As I said, suddenly. 

DOGE. 

Is that so strange, 
That you repeat the word emphatically? 

LOREDANO. 

So far from strange, that never was there death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so ? 

DOGE. 

What should I think of mortals '. 



336 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


LOREDANO. 


Avow'd his crime, in not denying that 


That they have mortal foes. 


The letter to the Duke of Milan's his), 


DOGE. 


James Foscari return to banishment, 


I understand you : 


And sail in the same galley which convey'd him. 


Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 


MARINA. 


LOREDANO. 


Thank God! At least they will not drag him more 


You best know if I should be so. 


Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 


DOGE. 


But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 


I do. 


Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 


Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 


Desire, were to escape from such a land. 


Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also read 


DOGE. 


Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 


That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 


To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 


MARINA. 


Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 


No, 't was too human. May I share his exile > 


A fable. 


LOREDANO, 


LOREDANO. 


Of this « the Ten» said nothing. 


Who dares say so ? 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


So I thought : 


I !— T is true 


That were too human, also. But it was not 


Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 


Inhibited ? 


As their son e'er can be, and I no less 


LOREDANO. 


Was theirs; but I was openly their foe: 


It was not named. 


I never work'd by plot in council, nor 


marina (to the doge). 


Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 


Then, father, 


Of practise against life by steel or drug. 


Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 


The proof is, your existence. 


[To Loredano. 


LOREDANO. 


And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 


I fear not. 


Permitted to accompany my husband. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


You have no cause, being what I am; but were I 


I will endeavour. 


That you would have me thought, you long ere now 


MARINA. 


Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 


And you, signor? 


LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 


I never yet knew that a noble's life 


Lady! 


In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 


'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 


That is, by open means. 


Of the tribunal. 


DOGE. 


MARINA. 


But I, good signor, 


Pleasure ! what a word 


Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 


To use for the decrees of 


In blood, in mind, in means; and that they know 


DOGE. 


Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 


Daughter, know you 


Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 


Tn what a presence you pronounce these things? 


Before or since that period, had I held you 


MARINA. 


At so much price as to require your absence, 


A prince's and his subject's. 


A word of mine had set such spirits to work 


LOREDANO. 


As would have made you nothing. But in all things 


Subject! 


I have observed the strictest reverence; 


MARINA. 


Nor for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 


Oh! 


(I do not speak of you but as a single 


It galls you: — well, you are his equal, as 


Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 


You think, but that you are not, nor would be, 


I could enforce for my authority 

Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 


Were he a peasant: — well, then, you're a prince, 


A princely noble; and what then am I? 


I have observed with veneration, like 


LOREDANO. 


A priest's for the high altar, even unto 


The offspring of a noble house. 


The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 


MARINA. 


Safety, and all save honour, the decrees, 


And wedded 


The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 


To one as noble. What or whose, then, is 


The presence that should silence my free thoughts? 


LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 


'T is decreed, 


The presence of your husband's judges. 


That, -without farther repetition of 


DOGE. 


The Question, or continuance of the trial, 


And 


Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is 


The deference due even to the lightest word 


(« The Ten,» dispensing with the stricter law 


That falls from those who rule in Venice. 


Which still prescribes the Question till a full 


MARINA. 


Confession, and the prisoner partly having 


Keep 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



33' 



Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 

Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 

Your tributaries, your dumb citizens, 

And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 

Your spies, your galley and your other slaves. 

To whom your midnight carryings-cff and drownings, 

Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 

The water's level; your mysterious meetings, 

And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 

Your « Bridge of Sighs, » your strangling chamber, and 

Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 

The beings of anotber and worse world! 

Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye; 

Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 

Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 

Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 

With him. Then what have I to fear from you. 

Even if I were of fearful nature, which 

I trust I am not ? 

DOGE. 

You hear, she speaks wildly. 

MARINA. 

Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

LOREDANO. 

Lady', words, 
Utter'd within these walls, I bear no further 
Than to the tbreshold, saving such as pass 
lietween tbe Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge! have you aught in answer? 

DOGE. 

Something from 
The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

LOREDANO. 

My mission here is to the Doge. 
doge. 

Then say 
The Doge will chuse his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet; and for 
The father 

LOREDANO. 

I remember mine. — Farewell ! 
I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. 

[Exit Loredano. 

MARINA. 

Are you content 1 
doge. 
I am what you behold. 

MARINA. 

And that 's a mystery. 
doge. 
Ail things are so to mortals : who can read them 
Save he who made? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long- 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents. 
And when we cry out against fate, 't were well 
We should remember fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
The universal heritage, to battle 



With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 
And the original ordinance, that man 
i Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
' Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 
And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath; our durance upon days, 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not us! — So, we are slaves, 
i The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 

Upon our will; the will itself no less 
| Depends upon a straw than on a storm; 
| And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
| And still towards death, a thing which comes as much, 
I Without our act or choice, as birth; so that 
i Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 

And this is hell: the best is, that it is not 
! Eternal. 



These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

DOGE. 

And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge rcry son? I have administer'd 
31 y country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is: my reign has double realms; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

MARINA. 

And Foscari ? f do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. 

doge. 
You shall be so; 
Thus much they cannot well deny. 

MARINA. 

And if 
They should, I will fly with him. 
doge. 

That can ne'er be. 
And whither would you fly ? 

MARtNA. 

I know not, reck not — 
To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live, nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

doge. 
What, wouldst thou have a renegade for husband, 
And turn him into traitor? 

MARINA. 

He is none ; 
The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

DOGE. 

I cannot 
Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

MARINA. 

No ; thou 

43 



338 BYRON'S WORKS. 


Observest, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 


MARINA. 


A code of mercy by comparison. 


And nothing more ? Will you not see him 


DOGE. 


Ere he depart? It may be the last time. 


I found the law; I did not make it. Were I 


DOGE. 


A subject, still I might find parts and portions 


The last !— my boy !— The last time I shall see 


Fit for amendment; but, as prince, I never 


My last of children! Tell him I will come. 


Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 


[Exeunt. 


Left by our fathers. 




MARINA. 




Did they make it for 
The ruin of their children ? 


ACT III. 


DOGE. 

Under such laws, Venice 


SCENE I. 


Has risen to what she is — a slate to rival 


The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 


In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 




In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
Amongst us), all that history has bequeathed 


JACOPO FOSCARI (solus). 


No light, save yon faint gleam, which shows me walls 


Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

MARINA. 


Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 


The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 


Rather say, 
Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 


Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 


And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 


DOGE. 


With some faint hope, 't is true, that time, which wears 


Perhaps so ; 
But yet subdued the world: in such a state 


The marble down, had worn away the hate 


Of men's hearts : but I knew them not, and here 


An individual, be he richest of 


Must I consume my own, which never beat 


Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 


For Venice but with such a yearning as 


Without a name, is alike nothing, when 


The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 


The policy, irrevocably tending 

To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigour. 


High in the air on her return to greet 


Her callow brood. What letters are these which 


MARINA. 


[Approaching the wall. 


This means that you are more a Doge than father. 


Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall? 


DOGE. 


Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah ! the names 


It means I am more citizen than either. 


Of my sad predecessors in this place, 


If we had not for many centuries 


The dates of their despair, the brief words of 


Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 


A grief too great for many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph their history, 


I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 

MARINA. 


And the poor captive's tale is graven on 


Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 


His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 


Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 


DOGE. 


His own and his beloved's name. Alas! 


Had I as many sons 
As I have years, I would have given them all, 


F recognize some names familiar to me, 


And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 


Not without feeling, but I would have given them 


Fittest for such a chronicle as this, 


To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 


Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 


On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 


[He engraves his name. 


As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism, 






Enter a Familiar o/« the Ten. » 


Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 


She might decree. 


FAMILIAR. 


MARINA. 


I bring you food. 


And this is patriotism ? 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


To me it seems the worst barbarity. 


I pray you set it down ^ 


Let me seek out my husband : the sage « Ten, » 


I am past hunger : but my lips are parch' d — 


With all its jealousy, will hardly war 


The water ! 


So far with a weak woman as deny me 


FAMILIAR. 


A moment's access to his dungeon. 


There. 


DOGE. 


jacopo foscari (after drinking ). 


I'll 


I thank you: I am better. 


So far take on myself, as order that 


FAMILIAR. 


You may be admitted. 


I am commanded to inform you that 


MARINA. 


Your further trial is postponed. 


And what shall I say 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


To Foscari from his father? 


Till when ? 


DOGE. 


FAMILIAR. 


That he obey 


I know not. — It is also in my orders 


The laws. 


That your illustrious lady be admitted. 



! 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ah! they relent, then— I had ceased to hopa it : 
'T was time. 

Enter Marina. 

MARINA. 

My best beloved ! 
jacopo foscari (embracing her). 

My true wife, 
And only friend! What happiness! 
marina. 

We '11 part 



No more. 



• JACOPO FOSCARI. 

How! wouldst thou share a dungeon? 

MARINA. 

Ay, 
The rack, the grave, all— any thing with thee, 
Hut the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other : yet I will 
Share that — all tilings except new separation; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? Alas ! 
Why do I ask? Thy paleness 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

T is the joy 
Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Marina! 

MARINA. 

Tis 
The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 
No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And thine ! — but I am blinded by the torch. 

MARINA. 

As I had been without it. Couldst thou see here? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Nothing at first; but use and time had taught me 
Familiarity with -what was darkness; 
And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice : but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither I was husy writing. 

MARINA. 

What? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My name : look, 't is there — recorded next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

MARINA. 

And what of him? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

These walls are silent of men's ends; they only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
Or those who soon must be so. — What of him ? 
Thou askest. — What of me? may soon be ask'd, 



With the like answer— doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 

MARINA. 

/ speak of thee ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And wherefore not? All then shall speak of me : 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life; 
And neither do I fear. 

MARINA. 

Thy life is safe. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And liberty? 

MARINA. 

The mind should make its own. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That has a noble sound ; but 't is a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient: 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death 
(If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 't is not all, for there are things 
More woful— such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

MARINA. 

Alas ! and this 
Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That thought would scarcely aid me to endure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace ; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day; for, save the jailor's torch, 
And a strange fire-fly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

MARINA. 

I will be with thee. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ah! if it were so! 
But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me; so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story, 
With al! their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

MARINA. 

I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I know it — look ! 



34o BYRON'S WORKS. 


[He points to his limbs, as referring to the 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


tortures which lie had undergone. 


Ay — we but hear 


MARINA. 


Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 


No — no — no more of that : even they relent 


Their numbers and success; but who can number 


From that atrocity. 


The hearts which broke in silence of that parting, 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Or after their departure; of that malady 1 


What then ? 


Which calls up green and native fields to view 


MARINA. 


From the rough deep, with such identity 


That you 


To the poor exile's fever d eye, that he 


Return to Candia. 


Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading them? 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


That melody, 2 which out of tones and tunes 


Then my last hope 's gone. 


Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 


I could endure my dungeon, for 't was Venice ; 


Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 


I could support the torture — there was something 


From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 


In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up, 


That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 


Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 


And dies. You call this weakness! It is strength, 


Cut proudly still bestriding the high waves, 


I say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 


And holding on its course : but there, afar, 


He who loves not his country can love nothing. 


In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 


MARINA. 


And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, 


Obey her, then; 't is she that puts thee forth. 


My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 


Ay, there it is : 't is like a mother's curse 


MARINA. 


Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 


And here? 


The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Their hands upheld each other by the way, 


At once — by better means as briefer. 


Their tents were pitched together — I 'm alone. 


What ! would they even deny me my sires' sepulchre, 


MARINA. 


As well as home and heritage? 


You shall be so no more — I will go with thee. 


MARINA. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


My husband ! 


My best Marina! — and our children? 


I have sued to accompany ihee hence, 


MARINA. 


And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 


They, 


For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 


I fear, by the prevention of the stale's 


Is passion, andmot patriotism : for me, 


Abhorrent policy (which holds all ties 


So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, 


As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure), 


And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 


Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 


I would not cavil about climes or regions. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 


And canst thou leave them? 


A paradise; its first inhabitants 


MARINA. 


Were wretched exiles. 


Yes. With many a pang. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


But — I can leave them, children as they are, 


Well I know how wretched ! 


To teach you to be less a child. From this 


MARINA. 


Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 


And yet you see how from their banishment 


Dy duties paramount; and 't is our first 


Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 


On earth to bear. 


Their antique energy of mind, all that 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 


Have I not borne? 


Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 


MARINA. 


And shall an evil, which so often leads 


Too much 


To good, depress thee thus ? 


From tyrannous injustice, and enough 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


To teach you not to shrink now from a lot 


Had I gone forth 


Wh'ch, as compared with what you have undergone 


From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 


Of late, is mercy. 


Another region, with their flocks and herds; 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 


Ah ! you never yet 


Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 


Were far away from Venice, never saw 


From fertile Italy to barren islets, 


Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 


I would have given some tears to my late country, 


While every furrow of the vessel's track 


And many thoughts; but afterwards address'd 


Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you never 


Myself, with those about me, to create 


Saw day go down upon your native spires 


A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 


So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 


Have borne this — though I know not. 


And after dreaming a disturbed vision 


MARINA. 


Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 


Wherefore not? 




It was the lot of millions, and must be 


' The calenture. 


The fate of myriads more. 


- Alluding to the Swiss air and its effects. 



THE TWO FOSCxVR 



34i 



MARINA. 

I -will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city 
(Since you must love it, as it seems), and this 
Chamber of state her gratitude allots vou. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

J4COPO FOSCARI. 

That's sudden. Shall I not behold my father? 

MARINA. 

You will. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Where ? 

MARINA. 

Here or in the ducal chamber — 
He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Blame him not. 
I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now- act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from « the Ten,» and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

MARINA. 

Accumulated ! 
What pangs are those they have spared you ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That of leaving 
Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 't was 
Upon my former exile. 

MARINA. 

That is true, . 
And thus far I am also the state's debtor. 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves. Away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd. 
Unjust, and 

JACOPO FOSCVRI. 

Curse it not. If I am silent. 
Who dares accuse my country? 

MARINA. 

Men and angels ! 
The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Conldst thou say 
Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee 1 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Let us address us then, since so it must be, 
To our departure. Who comes here? 

Enter Loredano, attended by Familiars. 

Loredan'o (to tiie Familiars). 

Retire, 
But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Most welcome, noble signor. 
I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

LOREDANO. 

'T is not the first time 
I have visited these places. 



MARINA. 

Nor would be 
The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

LOREDANO. 

Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce « the Ten's» decree. 

MARINA. 

That tenderness 
Has been anticipated : it is known. 

LOREDANO. 

As how ? 

MARINA. 

I have inform'd him, not so gently, 
Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues; but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence! 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I pray you, calm you: 
What can avail such words ? 

MARINA. 

To let him know 
That he is known. 

LOREDANO. 

Let the fair dame preserve 
Her sex's privilege. 

MARINA. 

I have some sons, sir. 
Will one day thank you better. 

LOREDANO. 

You do well 
To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then? 

JACOPO FOSCARI, 

Return to Candia ! 

LOREDANO. 



True — 



For life. 



Not long. 



JACOPO FOSCARI. 
LOREDANO. 

I said — for life. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 



And I 



Repeat — not long. 



LOREDANO. 

A year's imprisonment 
In Canea— afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Both the same to me : the after 
Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is 't true my wife accompanies me ? 

LOREDANO. 

Yes, 
If she so wills it. 

MARINA. 

Who obtain'd that justice 1 

LOREDANO. 

One who wars not with women. 



342 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



MARINA. 

But oppresses 
Men : howsoever, let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

LOREDANO. 

He receives them 
As they are offer'd. 

MARINA. 

May they thrive with him 
So much ! — no more. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Is this, sir, your -whole mission? 
Decause we have brief time for preparation, 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

MARINA. 

Nobler! 

LOREDANO. 

How nobler? 

MARINA. 

As more generous ! 
We say the « generous steed» to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I 've learnt, although 
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze), 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
Of Egypt, and her neighbour Araby : 
And why not say as soon « the generous man?» 
If race be aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay- 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
Upon your genealogic trees most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Again, Marina ! 

MARINA. 

Again! 'still, Marina. 
See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery? , 
Let him partake it ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That were difficult, 

MARINA. 

Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 

Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 

And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 

A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 

No less than master : I have probed his soul 

A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 

Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me! 

With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 

To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit: 

They are his weapons, not his armour, for 

I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 

I care not for his frowns! We can but die, 

And he but live, for him the very worst 

Of destinies : each day secures him more 

His tempter's. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

This is mere insanity. 

MARINA. 

j It may be so ; and who hath made us mad '■ 



LOREDANO. 

Let her go on; it irks not me. 

MARINA. 

That 's false ! 
You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him. 
How have you sped? We are wretched, signor, as 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us, 
And how feel you ? 

LOREDANO. 

As rocks. 

MARINA. 

By thunder blasted : 
They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 
Enter the doge. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My father ! 

doge (embracing him). 
Jacopo ! my sou — my son ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name! 
doge. 

My boy ! 
Couldst thou but know 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 
doge. 
I feel too much thou hast not. 

MARINA. 

Doge, look there ! 
[She points to Loredano. 
doge. 
I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 

MARINA. 

Caution ! 

LOREDANO. 

Being 
The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

MARINA. 

Wretch! 't is no virtue, but the policy 

Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice: 

As such I recommend it, as I would 

To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 

DOGE. 

Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

LOREDANO. 

You may know him better. 

MARINA. 

Yes ; worse he could not. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Father, let not these 
Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
Indeed, our last of meetings? 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



343 



DOGE. 

You behold 



These white hairs? 



JACOPO FOSCAKT. 

And I feel, besides, that mine 
Will never be so white. Embrace me, father! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children— to your last child's children : 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May 1 not see them also? 

MARINA. 

No — not here. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

They might behold their parent any where. 

MARINA. 

I would that they beheld their father in 

A place which would not mingle fear with love, 

To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 

They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 

Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well 

I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 

But let it only be their heritage, 

And not their present fee. Their senses, though 

Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 

And these vile damps too, and yon tliick green wave 

Which floats above the place where we now stand — 

A cell so far below the water's level, 

Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 

Might strike them: this is not their atmosphere, 

However you — and you — and, most of all, 

As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano! 

May breathe it without prejudice. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I had not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 

I shall depart, then, without meeting them? 

DOGE. 

Not so: they shall await you in my chamber. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And must 1 leave them all? 



LOREDANO. 

You must. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 



Not one? 



They are the state's. 



I thought they had been mine. 

LOREDANO. 

They are, in all maternal things. 

MARINA. 

That is, 
In all things painful. If they 're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn: but if 
They live, they '11 make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles — what you will ; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles ! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

LOREDANO. 

The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

How know you that here, where the genial wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 



LOREDANO. 

'T was so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the « Riva cli Schiavoni.» 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Father! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

DOGE. 

Be firm, my son ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I will do my endeavour. 

MARINA. 

Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

LOREDANO. 

And present 
Liberation. 

DOGE. 

He speaks truth. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No doubt : but 't is 
Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change them. 
But I reproach not. 

LOREDANO. 

The time narrows, signer. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Alas! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this: but when I feel 
That every step I take even from this cell. 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

DOGE. 

Boy ! no tears. 

MARINA. 

Let them flow on: he wept not on the rack 

To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 

They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 

And I will find an hour to wipe away 

Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 

But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 

Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

loredano (to ttie Familiar). 

The torch there ! 

MARINA. 

Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

DOGE. 

My son, you are feeble : take this hand. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Alas! 
Must youth support itself on age, and I, 
Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 

LOREDANO. 

Take mine. 

MARINA. 

Touch it not, Foscari; 't will sting you. Signor, 
Stand off! be sure that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we 're plunged, 
No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

[Exeunt. 



344 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace, 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, 

BABARIGO. 

And have you confidence in such a project? 

LOREDANO. 

I have. 

BARBARIGO. 

'T is hard upon his years. 

LOREDANO. 

Say rather 
Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

BARBARIGO. 

'T will hreak his heart. 

LOREDANO. 

Age has no heart to break. 
He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

BARBARIGO. 

In his countenance, I grant you, never; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he? 

LOREDANO. 

In his own portion of the palace, with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

BARBARIGO. 

Bidding farewell. 

LOREDANO. 

A last — as soon he shall 
Bid to his dukedom. 

BARBARIGO. 

When embarks the son? 

LOREDANO. 

Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. T is 
Time to admonish them again. 

BARBARIGO. 

Forbear , 
Retrench not from their momeuts. 

LOREDANO. 

Not I, now 
We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment ; 
And that is vengeance. 

BARBARIGO. 

In my mind, too deep. 

LOREDANO. 

'T is moderate — not even life for life, the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time: 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

BARBARIGO. 

Did not the Doge deny this strongly? 

LOREDANO. 

Doubtless. 

BARBARIGO. 

And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

LOREDANO. 

No. 

BARBARIGO. 

But if this deposition should take place, 



By our united influence in the council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

LOREDANO. 

As much of ceremony as ye will, 

So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 

I care, depute the Council on their knees 

(Like Barbarossa to the Pope) to beg him 

To have the courtesy to abdicate. 

BARBARIGO. 

What, if he will not? 

LOREDANO. 

We '11 elect another, 
And make him null. 

BARBARIGO. 

But will the laws uphold us? 

LOREDANO. 

What laws ?— «The Ten» are laws : and if they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

BARBARIGO. 

At your own peril? 

LOREDANO. 

There is none, I tell you, 
Our powers are such. 

BARBARIGO. 

But he has twice already 
Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice it was refused. 

LOREDANO. 

The better reason 
To grant it the third time. 

BARBARIGO. 

Unask'd? 

LOREDANO. 

It shows 
Th' impression of his former instances: 
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful: 
If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and remove him : since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do not 
You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

BARBARIGO. 

Could I but be certain 
This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

LOREDANO. 

He is safe, I tell you ; 
His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 

BARBARIGO. 

But discarded princes 
Are seldom long of life. 

LOREDANO. 

And men of eighty 
More seldom still. 

BARBARIGO. 

And why not wait these few years? 

LOREDANO. 

Because we have waited long enough; and he 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



345 



Lived longer than enough. Hence! In to council ! 


In earnest councils — we will not be least so. 


[Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 


[Exeunt. 


Enter Memmo and a Senator. 


Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 


SENATOR. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


A summons to « the Ten !» Why so ? 


Ah, father ! though I must and will depart, 


MEMMO. 


Yet — yet I pray you to obtain for me 


« The Ten» 


That I once more return unto my home, 


Alone can answer : they are rarely wont 


Ilowe'er remote the period. Let there be 


To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 


A point of time as beacon to my heart, 


By previous proclamation. We are summon'd— 


With any penalty annex'd they please, 


That is enough. 


But let me still return. 


SENATOR. 


DOGE. 


For them, but not for us; 


Son Jacopo, 


I would know why. 

MEMMO. 


Go and obey our country's will, 't is not 


For us to look beyond. 


You will know why anon, 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


If you obey, and, if not, you no less 


But still I must 


Will know why you should have ohey'd. 


Look back. I pray you, think of me. 


SENATOR. 


DOGE. 


I mean not 


Alas! 


To oppose them, but 


You ever were my dearest offspring, when 


MEMMO, 


They were more numerous, nor can be less so 


In Venice « But» 's a traitor. 


Now you are last; but did the state demand 


But me no « buts,» unless you would pass o'er 


The exile of the disinterred ashes 


The Bridge which few repass. 


Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 


SENATOR. 


And their desponding shades came flitting round 


I am silent. 


To impede the act, I must no less obey 


MEMMO. 


A duty paramount to every duty. 


Why 


MARINA. 


Thus hesitate? — «The Ten» have call'd in aid 


Mv husband ! let us on : this but prolongs 


Of their deliberation five and twenty 


Our sorrow. 


Patricians of the senate — you are one, 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


And I another ; and it seems to me 


But we are not summon'd yet: 


Doth honour' d by the choice or chance which leads us 


The galley's sails are not unfurl'd:— who knows? 


To mingle with a body so august. 


The wind may change. 


SENATOR. 


MARINA. 


Most true. I say no more. 


And if it do, it will not 


MEMMO. 


Change tlieir hearts, or your lot; the galley's oars 


As we hope, signor, 


Will quickly clear the harbour. 


And all may honestly (that is, all those 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Of noble blood may), one day hope to be 


Oh, ye elements! 


Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 


Where are your storms? 


Chosen delegates a school of wisdom, to 


MARINA. 


Be thus admitted, though as novices, 


In human breasts. Alas! 


To view the mysteries. 


Will nothing calm you? 


SENATOR. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Let us view them; they, 


Never yet did mariner 


No doubt, are worth it. 


Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 


MEMMO. 


And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 


Being worth our lives ' 


Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 


If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 


Ye love not with more holy love than I, 


Something, at least, to you or me. 


To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 


SENATOR. 


And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 


I sought not 


Till the sea dash me back on my own shore, 


A place within the sanctuary; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 


A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 


Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt 


I shall fulfil my office. 


The land I love, and never shall see more ! 


MEMMO. 


MARINA. 


Let us not 


And wish you this with me beside you ? 


Be latest in obeying « the Ten's» summons. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


SENATOR. 


No— 


All are not met, but I am of your thought 


No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! Mayst thou 


So far — let 's in. 


Live long to be a mother to those children 


MEMMO. 


Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 


The earliest are most welcome 


Of such support ! But for myself alone, 

44 



346 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



May all the winds of heaven howl down the gulf, I 

And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 

Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 

As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 

Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 

Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 

Dead, but still bear me to a native grave, 

From fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 

Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 

One lacerated like the heart which then 

Will be But wherefore breaks it not! why live I? 

MARINA. 

To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A sufferer, but not a loud one : why, 
What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence- 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Double, 
Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

DOGE. 

Would 
It could avail thee! but no less thou hast it. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Forgive 

DOGE. 

What? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My poor mother for my birth, 
And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you), for the gift of life, 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

MARINA. 

What hast thou done? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Nothing. I cannot charge 
My memory with much save sorrow: but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter ! 

MARINA. 

Fear not: that's reserved 
For your oppressors. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Let me hope not. 

MARINA. 

Hope not? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I cannot wish them all they have inflicted. 

MARINA. 

All ! the consummate fiends ! A thousand fold. 
May the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon them' 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

They may repent. 

MARINA. 

And if they do, Heaven will not 
Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Guards. 

OFFICER. 

Signor! the boat is at the shore— the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 



JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And I to be attended. Once more father, 
Your hand ! 

DOGE. 

Take it. Alas! how thine own trembles ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No— you mistake; 't is yours that shakes, my father. 
Farewell ? 

DOGE. 

Farewell! Is there aught else? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No — nothing. 
[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

OFFICER. 

You turn pale — 
Let me support you— paler— ho ! some aid there! 
Some water! 

MARINA. 

Ah, he is dying! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Now, I 'm ready — 
My eyes swim strangely— where 's the door? 

MARINA. 

Away ! 
Let me support him— my best love ! Oh God ! 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

The light! 
Is it the light?— I am faint. 

[Officer presents him with water. 

OFFICER. 

He will be better, 
Perhaps, in the air. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I doubt not. Father — wife — 
Your hands ! 

MARINA. 

There 's death in that damp clammy grasp. 
Oh God! — My Foscari, how fare you? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Well! 

[He dies. 

OFFICER. 

He 's gone. 

DOGE. 

He 's free. 

MARINA. 

No — no, he is not dead; 
There must be life yet in that heart— he could not 
Thus leave me. 

DOGE. 

Daughter! 

MARINA. 

Hold thy peace, old man ! 
I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh Foscari ! 

OFFICER. 

We must remove the body. 

MARINA. 

Touch it not, dungeon miscreants! your base office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honour them. 

OFFICER. 

I must 



THE TWO 


FOSCARI. 347 


] Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 


BARBARIGO. 


DOGE. 


It shall not be 


1 Inform the signory from me, the Doge, 


Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 


J They have no further power upon those ashes: 


Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 


| While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject- 


DOGE. 


Now he is wime— my broken-hearted boy! 


I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 


[Exit Officer. 


Are evil, you may say them; nothing further 


MARINA. 


Can touch me, more than him thou look'st on there : 


And I must live! 


If they be good, say on; you need not fear 


DOGE. 


That they can comfort me. 


Your children live, Marina. 


BARBARIGO. 


MARINA. 


I would they could ! 


My children ! true— they live, and I must live 


DOGE. 


To bring them up to serve the state, and die 


I spoke not to you, but to Loredano: 


As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 


He understands me. 


Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 


MARINA. 


Had been so ! 


Ah ! I thought it would be so. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


My unhappy children ! 


What mean you? 


MARINA. 


MARINA. 


What ! 


Lo ! there is the blood beginning 


Fou feel it then at last— you ! — Where is now 


To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 


The stoic of the state? 


The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 


doge (throwing himself down by the body). 


[To Loredano 


Here ! 


Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 


MARINA. 


How death itself bears witness to thy deeds! 


Ay, weep on ! 


DOGE. 


I thought you had no tears— you hoarded them 
Until they are useless; but weep on! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 


My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Dear hence the body. [To his Attendants.] Signors, if 
it please you, 




Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 


Within an hour I '11 hear you. 




[ExeiintDoGV, Marina, and Attendants with 


LOREDANO. 


the body. 


What 's here ? 


Manent Loredano and Barbarigo, 


MARINA. 


BARBARIGO. 


Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avaunt ! 


He must not 


Incarnate Lucifer ! 't is holy ground. 


Be troubled now. 


A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 


LOREDANO. 


A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment. 


He said himself that nought 


BARBARIGO. 


Could give him trouble farther. 


Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 


BARBARIGO. 


But pass'd here merely on our path from council. 


These are words ; 


MARINA. 


But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 


Pass on. 


Upon it barbarous. 


LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 


We sought the Doge. 


Sorrow preys upon 


marina (pointing to the Doge,u>7io is still on the ground 


Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 


by his son's body) . 


From its sad visions of the other world 


He's busy, look, 


Than calling it at moments back to this. 


About the business you provided for him. 


The busy have no time for tears. 


Are ye content? 


BARBARIGO. 


BARBARIGO. 


And therefore 


We will not interrupt 


You would deprive this old man of all business? 


A parent's sorrows. 


LOREDANO. 


MARINA. 


The thing 's decreed. The Giunta and « the Ten » 


No, ye only make them, 


Have made it law : who shall oppose that law ? 


Then leave them. 


BARBARIGO. 


doge (rising). 


Humanity ! 


Sirs, I am ready. 


LOREDANO. 


BARBARIGO. 


Because his son is dead? 


No — not now. 


BARBARIGO. 


LOREDANO. 


And yet unburied. 


Yet 't was important. 


LOREDANO. 


DOGE. 


Had we known this when 


If 't was so, I can 


The act was passing it might have suspended 


Only repeat — I am ready. 


Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

I 



3 4 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



BARBARIGO. 

1 'II not consent. 

LOREDANO. 

You have consented to 
All that 's essential — leave the rest to me. 

BARBARIGO. 

Why press his abdication now? 

LOREDANO. 

The feelings 
Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

BARBARIGO. 

You have a son. 

LOREDANO. 

I have — and had a father. 

BARBARIGO. 

Still so inexorable? 

LOREDANO. 

Still. 

BARBARIGO. 

But let him 
Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

LOREDANO. 

Let him call up into life 
My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

BARBARIGO. 

And art thou sure 
He dealt in such? 

LOREDANO. 

Most sure. 

BARBARIGO. 

And yet he seems 
All openness. 

LOREDANO. 

And so he seem'd, not long 
Ago, to Garmagnuola. 

BARBARIGO. 

The attainted 
And foreign traitor? 

LOREDANO. 

Even so : when he, 
After the very night in which « the Ten » 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Met the great Duke at day-break with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
« The good day or good night ?» his Doge-ship answer'd, 
« That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you.)) 1 
'T was true; the question was the death resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
1 An historical fact. 



And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled on him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand- 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead; so are young Foscari and his brethren — 
1 never smiled on them. 

BARBARIGO. 

Was Garmagnuola 
Your friend? 

LOREDANO. 

He was the safeguard of the city. 
In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

BARBARIGO. 

Ah ! that seems 
The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway. 

LOREDANO. 

The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 

To him who took a city; and they gave 

A crown to him who saved a citizen 

In battle: the rewards are equal. Now, 

If we should measure forth the cities taken 

By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 

Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 

Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 

To private havoc, such as between him 

And my dead father. 

BARBARIGO. 

Are you, then, thus fix'd ? 

LOREDANO. 

Why, what should change me? 

BARBARIGO. 

That which changes me; 
But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sons are dead, his family depress'd, 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? 

LOREDANO. 

More soundly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That 's an error, and you '11 find it 
Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

LOREDANO. 

They sleep not 
In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

BARBARIGO. 

Fancy's distemperature ! There is no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than hate; 
Not even its opposite, love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 

Enter an Officer. 

LOREDANO. 

Where go you, sirrah ? 

OFFICER. 

By the ducal order 
To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 



BARBARIGO. 



Thi 



THE TWO 


FOSCAR1. 


349 


Vault has been often open'cl of late years. 


chief of the ten. 




LOREDANO. 


In the first place, the Council doth condole 




'T will be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 


With the Doge on his late and private grief. 




OFFICER. 


DOGE. 




May I pass on ? 


No more — no more of that. 




LOREDA.NO. 


chief of the ten. 




You may. 


Will not the Duke 




BARBARIGO. 


Accept the homage of respect? 




How bears the Doge 


DOGE. 




This last calamity? 


I do 




OFFICER. 


Accept it as 't is given — proceed. 




With desperate firmness. 


chief of the ten. 




In presence of another he says little, 


« The Ten,» 




but I perceive his lips move now and then; 


With a selected giunta from the senate, 




And, once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 


Of twenty-five of the best-born patricians, 




Apartment, mutter forth the words — «My son!» 


Having deliberated on the state 




Scarce audibly. I must proceed. 


Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 




[Exit Officer. 


Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 




BARBARIGO. 


Your years, so long devoted to your country, 




This stroke 


Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 




Will move all Venice in his favour. 


Now to solicit from your wisdom (which, 




LOREDANO. 


Upon reflection, must accord in this), 


! 


Right! 


The resignation of the ducal ring, 


J 


We must be speedy : let us call together 


Which you have worn so long and venerably ; 




The delegates appointed to convey 


And, to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 




The Council's resolution. 


Cold to your years and services, they add 




BARBARIGO. 


An appanage of twenty hundred golden 




I protest 


Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 




Against it at this moment. 


Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 




LOREDANO. 


DOGE. 




As you please — 


Did I hear rightly? 




I '11 take their voices on it ne'ertheless, 


chief of the ten. 




And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 


Need I say again? 




[Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 


DOGE. 

No — Have you done? 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 




ACT V. 


I have spoken. Twenty-four 


Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 




SCENE I. 


DOGE. 

I shall not need so many seconds. 




The Doge's Apartment. 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 




The Doge and Attendant. 


We 
Will now retire. 




ATTENDANT. 


DOGE. 




My lord, the deputation is in waiting; 


Stay ! Four and twenty hours 




Rut add, that if another hour would better 


Will alter nothing which I have to say. 




Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 




DOGE. 


Speak ! 




To me all hours are alike. Let them approach. 


DOGE. 




[Exit Attendant. 


When I twice before reiterated 




AN OFFICER. 


My wish to abdicate, it was refused me; 




Prince ! I have done your bidding. 


And not alone refused, but ye exacted 




DOGE. 


An oath from me that I would never more 




What command? 


Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 




OFFICER. 


In full exertion of the functions which 




A melancholy one — to call the attendance 


My country call'd me here to exercise, 




Of 


According to my honour and my conscience — 




DOGE. 


I cannot break my oath. 




True — true — true; I crave your pardon. I 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 




Begin to fail in apprehension, and 


Reduce us not 




Wax very old — old almost as my years. 


To the alternative of a decree, 




Till now I fought them off, but they begin 


Instead of your compliance. 




To overtake me. 


DOGE. 




Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the Signory, 


Providence 




and the Chief of the Ten. 


Prolongs my days, to prove and chasten me; 




Noble men, your pleasure ! 


Rut ye have no right to reproach my length 





350 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 


At my too long worn diadem and ring. 


1 am ready to lay down my life for her, 


Let them resume the gewgaws! 


As I have laid down dearer things than life; 


MARINA. 


But for my dignity — 1 hold it of 


Oh the tyrants! 


The whole republic; when the general will 


In such an hour too ! 


Is manifest, then you shall be answer'd. 


DOGE. 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


'T is the fittest time ! 


We grieve for such an answer; but it cannot 


An hour ago I should have felt it. 


Avail you aught. 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


And 


I can submit to all things, 


Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 


But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 


But he, who, had he been enough protected, 


What you decree — decree. 


Might have repaid protection in this moment, 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


Cannot assist his father. 


With this, then, must we 


DOGE. 


Return to those who sent us? 


Nor should do so 


DOGE. 


Against his country, had he a thousand lives 


You have heard me. 


Instead of that 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


MARINA. 


With all due reverence we retire. 


They tortured from him. This 


[Exeunt the Deputation, etc. 


May be pure patriotism. I am a woman; 




To me my husband and my children were 

Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 


Enter an Attendant. 


ATTENDANT. 


I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 


My lord, 


The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 


The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 


And I, who would have given my blood for him, 


DOGE. 


Have nought to give but tears! But could I compass 


My time is hers. 


The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ; 


Enter Marina. 


I have sons who shall be men. 




DOGE. 


marina. 


Your grief distracts you. 


My lord, if I intrude — 


MARINA. 


Perhaps you fain would be alone? 


I thought I could have borne it, when I saw him 


DOGE. 


Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 


Alone ! 


That I would rather look upon his corse 


Alone, come all the world around me, I 


Than his prolong'd captivity : — I am punish'd 


Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 


For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 


I must look on him once more. 


Endeavour Oh my husband! 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


Come with me! 


Give it way! 


DOGE. 


I cannot comfort thee. 


Is he 


MARINA. 


MARINA. 


He might have lived, 


Our bridal-bed is now his bier. 


So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 


DOGE. 


So loving, so beloved, the native of 


And he is in his shroud? 


Another land, and who so blest and blessing 


MARINA. 


As my poor Foscari? Nothing was wanting 


Come, come, old man! 


Unto his happiness and mine save not 


[Exeimt the Doge and Marina. 


To be Venetian. 


Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 


DOGE. 




Or a prince's son. 


barbarigo (to an Attendant). 


MARINA. 


Where is the Doge ? 


Yes; all things which conduce to other men's 


ATTENDANT. 


Imperfect happiness or high ambition, 


This instant retired hence, 


By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 


With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 


The country and the people whom he loved, 


LOREDANO. 


The prince of whom he was the elder born, 


Where? 


And 


ATTENDANT. 


DOGE. 


To the chamber where the body lies. 


Soon may be a prince no longer. 


BARBARIGO. 


MARINA. 


Let us return, then. 


How? 


LOREDANO. 


DOGE. 


You forget, you cannot. 


They have taken my son from me, and now aim 


We have the implicit order of the giunta 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



35 



To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they '11 he here soon after us. 

BARBARIGO. 

And will they press their answer on the Doge ? 

LOREDANO. 

'T was his own wish that all should he done promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Die in his robes. 
He could not have lived long; but I have done 
My best to save his honours, and opposed 
This proposition to to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither? 

LOREDANO. 

'T was fit that some one of such different thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

BARBARIGO. 

And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 

Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 

You are ingenious, Loredano, in 

Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 

A very Ovid in the art of hating; 

T is thus (although a secondary object, 

Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 

I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 

This undesired association in 

Your giunta's duties. 

LOREDANO. 

How ! — my giunta ! 

BARBARIGO. 

Fours .' 
They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours? 

LOREDANO. 

You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
This from you. 

BARBARIGO. 

Oh ! they '11 hear as much one day 
From louder tongues than mine : they have gone beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power ; and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

LOREDANO. 

You talk but idly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That remains for proof. 
Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Is the Duke aware 
We seek his presence! 

ATTENDANT. 

He shall be inform'd. 

[Exit Attendant. 

BARBARIGO. 

The Duke is with his son. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

If it be SO, 
We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. T is time enough to-morrow. 



LOREDANO (aside to BARBARIGO). 

Now the rich man's hell-fire upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I '11 have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage signors, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

BARBARIGO. 

But be human ! 

LOREDANO. 

See, the Duke comes '. 

Enter the Doge. 

doge. 
I have obey'd your summons. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We come once more to urge our past request. 

DOGE. 

And I to answer. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

What ? 

DOGE. 

My only answer. 
You have heard it. 

CHIEF OE THE TEN. 

Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

DOGE. 

To the point — 
To the point! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

You are no longer Doge ; you are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

DOGE. 

That last clause, 
I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Your answer, Duke? 

LOREDANO. 

Your answer, Francis Foscari? 

DOGE. 

If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful as to place 
His own high dignity before his country; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being render'd, I obey. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

If you would have the three days named extended, 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

DOGE. 

Not eight hours, signor, 
Nor even eight minutes. — There's the ducal ring. 

[Taking off his ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 



352 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHIEF OF TEE TEN. 

Yet go not forth so quickly. 

DOGE. 

I am old, sir, 
And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
A face I know not — Senator ! your name, 
You, by your garb, Chief of the Forty ! 
MEMMO. 

Signor, 
I am the son of Marco Memmo. 

DOGE. 

Ah! 
Your father was my friend. — But sons and fathers ! 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

ATTENDANT. 

My prince ! 

DOGE. 

No prince — 
There are the princes of the prince ! 

[Pointing to the Ten's Deputation. 
Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Why 
So rashly ! 't will give scandal. 

DOGE. 

Answer that ; 

[To the Ten. 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the Servants. 
There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
With care, although 't is past all farther harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

BARBARIGO. 

He means 
The body of his son. 

DOGE. 

And call Marina, 
My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. 



Get thee ready, we must mourn 
Elsewhere. 

MARINA. 

And every where. 

DOGE. 

True ; but in freedom, 
Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signors, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls ten times 
As old as I am, and I 'm very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signors ! 
May the next duke be better than the present ! 

LOREDANO. 

The present duke is Pascal Malipiero. 



Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 

LOREDANO. 

Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

DOGE. 

Earth and heaven ! 
Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for his successor ! Happier he, 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult, at the least, was spared him. 

LOREDANO. 

What ! 
Do you regret a traitor? 

DOGE. 

No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
The landing-place of the canal. 

DOGE. 

No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 

To sovereignty — the Giant's Stairs, on whose 

Broad eminence I was invested duke. 

My services have calid me up those steps — 

The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 

There, five and thirty years ago, was I 

Install'd; and traversed these same halls, from which 

I never thought to be divorced, except 

A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 

But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 

But, come ; my son and I will go together — 

He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

What ! thus in public ? 

DOGE. 

I was publicly 
Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina! art thou willing? 

MARINA. 

Here 's my arm ! 

DOGE. 

And here my staff: thus propp'd, will I go forth. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

It must not be — the people will perceive it. 

DOGE. 

The people ! — There 's no people; you well know it, 

Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 

There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 

May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse you, 

Save with their hearts and eyes. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

You speak in passion. 
Else 

DOGE. 

You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont; it is a foible which 
Was not of miue, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 



THE TWO 


FOSCARI. 353 


Of yours, although the law does uot, nor will. 


LOREDANO. 


Farewell, sirs. 


Well, sir ! 


BARBARIGO. 


DOGE. 


You shall not depart without 


Then it is false, or you are true. 


An escort fitting past and present, rank. 


For my own part, I credit neither; 't is 


We will accompany, with due respect, 


An idle legend. 


The Doge unto his private palace. Say, 


MARINA. 


My brethren, will we not? 


You talk wildly, and 


DIFFERENT VOICES. 


Had better now be seated, nor as yet 


Ay ! — Ay ! 


Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband ! 


DOGE. 


BARBARIGO. 


You shall not 


Hesinks!— support him!— quick— a chair-support him ! 


Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 


DOGE. 


As sovereign — I go out as citizen 


The bell tolls on! — let 's hence — my brain 's on fire ! 


By the same portals; but as citizen, 


BARBARIGO. 


All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 


I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 


Which only ulcerate the heart the more , 


DOGE. 


Applying poisons there as antidotes. 


No! 


Pomp is for princes — I am none! — That 's false, 


A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 


I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 


Off with your arms! — That bell ! 


LOREDANO. 


[The Doge drops down, and dies. 


Hark! 


MARINA. 


[The great bell of Saint Mark's tolls. 


My God ! my God ! 


BARBARIGO. 


BARBARIGO [t.0 LOREDANO). 


The bell ! 


Behold ! your work 's completed ! 


CHIEF OF THE TEN". 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


Saint Mark's, which tolls for the election 


Is there then 


Of Malipiero. 


No aid ? Call in assistance ! 


DOGE. 


ATTENDANT. 


Well I recognize 


'T is all over. 


The sound! I heard it once, but once before, 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


And that is five and thirty years ago; 


If it be so, at least his obsequies 


Even then I was not young. 


Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 


BARBARIGO. 


His rank and his devotion to the duties 


Sit down, my lord! 


Of the realm, while his age permitted him 


You tremble. 


To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 


DOGE. 


Say, shall it not be so ? 


'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 


BARBARIGO. 


My heart aches bitterly. 


He has not had 


BARBARIGO. 


The misery to die a subject where 


I pray you sit. 


He reign' d : then let his funeral rites be princely. 


DOGE. 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 


We are agreed, then ? 


Marina ! let us go. 


All, except Loredano, answer 


MARINA. 


Yes. 


Most readily. 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


doge (walks a few steps, then stops). 


Heaven's peace be with him. 


I feel a thirst — will no one bring me here 


MARINA. 


A cup of water? 


Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 


BARBARIGO. 


Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 


I — 


A moment since, while yet it had a soul 


MARINA. 


(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 


And I 


And made your power as proud as was his glory) 


LOREDANO. 


You banish' d from his palace, and tore down 


And I 


From his high place with such relentless coldness : 


[The Doge takes a goblet from the hand o/Loredano. 


And now, when he can neither know these honours, 


doge. 


Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors, 


I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 


Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp, 


Most fit for such an hour as this. 


To make a pageant over what you trampled. 


LOREDANO. 


A princely funeral will be your reproach, 


Why so ? 


And not his honour. 


DOGE. 


CHIEF OF THE TEN. 


T is said that our Venetian crystal has 


Lady, we revoke not 


Such pure antipathy to poisons, as 


Our purposes so readily. 


To burst if aught of venom touches it. 


MARINA. 


You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 


I know it, 




4 5 



35j 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As far as touches torturing the living. 

I thought the dead had been beyond even you, 

Though (some, no doubt), consign' d to powers which may 

Resemble that you exercise on earth. 

Leave him to me; you would have done so for 

[lis dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd : 

It is my last of duties, and may prove 

A dreary comfort in my desolation. 

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 

And the apparel of the grave. 

CHIEF OF THE TEX. 

Do you 
Pretend still to this office? 

MARINA. 

I do, signor. 
Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
And those of [She stops with agitation. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Best retain it for your children. 

MARINA. 

Ay, they are fatherless: I thank you. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

j We 

| Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge , not clad 
As Doge, but simply as a senator. 

MARINA. 

I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 

Their victims; but ne'er heard, until this hour, 

Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 

O'er those they slew. I've heard of widows' tears — 

Alas! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 

I 've heard of heirs in sables — you have left none 

To the deceased, so you would act the part 

Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done! as one day, 

I trust, Heaven's will be done too ! 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Know you, lady, 
To whom ye speak , and perils of such speech? 

MARINA. 

I know the former better than yourselves: 
The latter — like yourselves; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals? 

BARBARIGO. 

Heed not her rash words ! 
Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We will not note them down. 
I Barbarigo (turning to loredano, who is writing upon 
his tablets). 

What art thou writing, 
j With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
loredano (pointing to the doge's body). 
That he has paid me ! « 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

What debt did he owe you? 

LOREDANO. 

A long and just one; nature's debt and mine. 

[Cur tain falls. 



1 « Lha parjata.* An historical fart. See the History of Veni 
j by P. Paru, page 41 1, vol. ii. 



APPENDIX. 



Extrait de I'Histoire de la Republique de Venise, par 
P. Darn, de V A cademie franchise. Tom. 2. 

Depuis trente ans la republique n'avait pas depose les 
armes. Elle avait acquis les provinces de Brescia, de 
Bergame, de Creme, et la principaute de Ravenne. 

Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaient beaucoup de 
malheureux et de mecontents. Le doge Francois Fos- 
cari, a qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en avoir ete le pro- 
moteur, manifestauneseconde fois, en i442,etprobable- 
ment avec plus de sincerite que la premiere, l'intentiou 
d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le conseil s'y refusa encore. On 
avait exige de lui le serment de ne plus quitter le dogat. 
II etait deja avance dans la vieillesse, conservant cepen- 
dant beaucoup de force de tete et de caractere, et jouis- 
sant de la gloire d'avoir vu la republique etendre an loin 
les limites de ses domaines pendant son administration. 
Au milieu de ces prosperites, de grands chagrins vin- 
rent mettre a lepreuve la fermete de son ame. 

Son fils, Jacques Foscari, fut accuse, en i44^ > d'avoir 
recu des presents de quelques princes ou seigneurs etran- 
gers, notamment, disait-on, du due de Milan, Philippe 
Yiseonti. C'etait non seulement une bassesse, mais une 
infraction des lois positives de la republique. 

Le conseil des dix traita cette affaire comme s'il se filt 
agi d'un debt commis par un particulier obscur. L'ac- 
cuse fut amene devant ses juges, devant le doge, qui ne 
crut pas pouvoir s'abstenir de presider le tribunal. La, 
il fut iulerroge, applique a la question, 1 declare coupable, 
et il entendit, de la bouche de sou pere , l'arret qui le 
condamnait a un banissement perpetuel, et le releguait 
a Naples de Romanie, pour y finir ses jours. 

Embarque sur une galere pour se rendre au lieu de son 
exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les sollicitations du 
doge obtinrent, non sans difficulte, qu'on lui assignat une 
autre residence. Enfin le conseil des dix lui permit de 
se retirer a T revise, en lui imposant l'obligation d'y res- 
ter sous peine de mort , et de se presenter tous les jours 
devant le gouverneur. 

II y etait depuis cinq ans, lorsqu'un des chefs du conseil 
des dix fut assassine. Les soupcons se porterent sur lui: 
un de ses domestiques qu'on avait vua Yenise fut arrete 
et subit la torture. Les bourreaux ne purent lui arracher 
aucun aveu. Ce terrible tribunal se fitamener le maitre, 
le soumit aux memes epreuves; il resista a tous les tour- 
ments, ne cessant d'attester son innocence; 2 mais onne 

1 E datagli la corda per avere da lui la verita ; chiamato il con- 
siglio de' dieci colla giunta, nel quale fu messer lo doge, fu sen- 
tenziato.— (Marin Sanuto Vite de' Duchi, F. Foscari.) 

2 E fu tormentato ne mai confesso cosaalcuna, pure parve al con- 
siglio de' dieci di continarlo in vita alia Canea. (Ibid.) Voici le 
teste du jugement : « Cum Jacobus Foscari per occasionem'pereus- 
sionis et mortis Hermolai Donati fuit retentus et examinatus, et 
propter significationes, testificationes, et scripturas quae babentur 
contra eum, dare apparet ipsum esse reum criminis praedicti, sed 
propter incantationes, et verba qua; sibi reperta sunt, de quibus 
existit indicia raanifesta, videtur propter obstinatam mentera suam, 
nou esse possibile extrahere ab ipso illam veritatem, qua; clara est 
per scripturas et per testificationes, quoniam in fune aliquam nee 
vocem, nee genitum, sed solum intra dentes voces ipse videiur et 
auditur infra se loqui, etc. . . . Tamen non est standum in istis 
terminis, propter honorem status nostri et pro multis respectibus, 
pra?sertim quod regimen nostrum occupatur in hac re et quia inter- 
dictum est amplius progredere: vadit pras quod dictus Jacobus 
Foscari, propter ea quae babentur de illo, mittatur in confinium in 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCA1U. 



355 



vit dans cette Constance que de l'obstination ; de ce qu'il 
taisait le fait, on conclut que ce fait existait : on attribua 
sa fermete a la magie, et on le relegua a la Canee. De 
cette terre lointaine, le banni, digue alors de quelque 
pitie, ne cessait decrire a son pere, a ses amis, pour 
obtenir quelque adoucissemcnt a sa deportation. N'ob- 
tenant rien, et sachant que la terreur qu'inspirait le con- 
seil des dix ne lui permettait pas d'esperer de trouver dans 
Venise une seule voix qui s'elevat eu sa faveur, il fit une 
lettre pour le nouveau due de Milan, par laquelle, au 
nom des bons offices que Sforce avait recus du chef de la 
republique, il implorait son intervention en faveur d'un 
innocent, du fils du doge. 

Cette lettre, selon quelques liistoriens, fut confiee a un 
marcband qui avail promis de la faire parvenir au due, 
mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avait a craindre en se 
rendantl'intermediaire d'une pareille correspondance, se 
hata, en debarquant a Venise, de la remettre au chef du 
tribunal. Une autre version, qui parait plus sure, rap- 
porte que la lettre fut surprise par un espion, attache aux 
pas de l'exile. » 

Ce fut un nouveau debt dont on eut a punir Jacques 
Foscari. Reclamer la protection d'un prince etranger 
etait un crime dans un sujet de la republique. Une ga- 
Jere partit sur-le-champ pour l'amener dans les prisons 
de Venise. A son arrivee, il fut soumis a iestrapacle. 2 
C'etak une siuguliere destinee pour le citoyen dune re- 
publique et pour le fils dun prince, d'etre trois fois dans 
sa vie applique a la question. Cette fois la torture etait 
d'autanl plus odieuse quelle n'avait point d'objet, le fait 
qu'on avait a lui reprocher etant incontestable. 

Ouand on demanda a l'accuse, dans les intervalles que 
les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avait ecrit la 
lettre qu'on lui produisait, il repondak que e'etait pre- 
cisement parcequ'il ne doutait pas quelle ne tomhat entre 
les mains du tribunal, que toute autre voie lui avait etc 
fermee pour faire parvenir ses reclamations, qu'il s'at- 
teudait bien qu'on le ferait amener a Venise, mais qu'il 
avait tout risque pour avoir la consolation de voir sa 
femme, son pere, et sa mere, encore une fois. 

Sur cette naive declaration, on confirma sa sentence 
d'exil ; mais on l'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il scrait retenu 
en prison pendant un an. Cette rigueur, dont on usait 
envers un malheureux etait sans doute odieuse; mais 
cette politique, qui defendait a tous les citoyens de faire 
ialervenir les etrangers dans les affaires interieures de la 
republique, etait sage. Elle etait chez eux une maxime de 
gouvernementet une maxime inflexible. L'historienPaul 
Morosini 3 a conte que l'empereur Frederic III, pendant 
qu'il etait l'hote des Venitiens, demanda comme une fa- 
veur parliculiere l'admission d'un citoyen dans le grand 
conseil, et la grace d'un ancien gouverneur de Candie, 
gendre du doge, et banni pour sa mauvaise administra- 
tion , sans pouvoir obtenir ni l'une ni l'autre. 

Cependant on ne put refuser au condamne la permis- 
sion de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses parents, qu'il allait 
quitter pour toujours. Cette derniere entrevue memo 
fut accompagnede cruaute, par la severe circonspection, 

civitate Caneae," ete. Notice sur lc proces de Jacques Foscari, dans 
uu volume intitule, Raccolta di meraorie storiche e annedote, per 
formar la Storia dell' eccelentissinio consiglio di X, dalla sua prima 
instituzione sino a' giorni nostri, con le diverse variazioui e rit'orme 
nelle varie epoche successe. (Archives de Venise.) 

1 La noticed tee ci-dessus qui rapporte les actesdj cette prosed ure. 

2 Ebbe prima per sapere la verita trenta squassi di corda. (Ma- 
rin Sanuto, Vito do' Duchi. F. Foscari.) 

3 Historia di Venezia, lib. 23. 



qui retenaitles epanchemens de la douleur paternelle et 
conjugale. Ce ne fut point dans l'interieur de leur ap- 
partement, ce fut dans une des grandes salles du palais, 
qu'une femme, accompagnee de ses quatre fils, vint faire 
les dernicrs adieux a son mari, qu'un pere oetogenaire et 
la dogaresseaccablesd'infirmkesjouirent un moment de 
la triste consolation de meler leurs larmesa celles de leur 
exile. II se jeta a leurs genoux, en leur tendant des 
mains disloquees par la torture, pour les supplier de sol- 
licker quelque adoucissemcnt a la sentence qui venak | 
d'etre prononce contre lui. Son pere eut le courage de j 
lui repondre : « Non, mon fils, respectez votre arret, el \ 
obeissez sans murmure a la seigneurie.»' A ces mots | 
il se separa de l'infortune, qui fut sur-le-champ embar- ; 
que pour Candie. 

L'antiquke vit avec aulant d'horreur que d'admiration 
un pere condamnant ses fils evidemment coupables. , 
Elle hesita pour qualifier de vertu sublime ou de ferocke 
cet effort qui parait au-dessus de la nature humaine ; 2 
mais ici, oil la premiere faute n'etait qu'une faiblesse, oil 
la seconde n'etait pasprouvee, oil la troisieme n'avait 
rien de criminel, comment concevoir la Constance d'un 
pere, qui voit torturer trois fois son fits unique, qui Fen- 
tend condamner sans prcuves; et qui n'eelate pas en 
plaintes; qui ne l'aborde que pour lui montrcr un visage 
plus austere qu'atiendri, et qui, au moment de s'en sc- 
parer pour jamais, lui interdit les murmures et jusqu'a 
l'esperance ? Comment expliquer une si cruelle circon- 
spection, si ce n'est en avouant, a notre honte, que la 
lyrannie peut obtenir de 1'espece humaiue les memes 
efforts que la vertu? La servitude aurait-elle son he- 
roisme comme la liberte? 

Quelque temps apres ce jugement, on decouvritle ve- 
ritable auteur de l'assassinat, dont Jacques Foscari por- 
tait la peine; mais il n'etait plus temps de reparer cette 
atroce injustice, le malheureux etait mort dans sa prison. 

II me rcste a raconter la suite des malheurs du pere. 
L'liistoire les attribue a l'impatience qu'avaient ses enne- 
mis et ses rivaux de voir vaquer sa place. Elle accuse 
formellement Jacques Loredan, l'un des chefs du conseil 
des dix, de s'etre livre contre ee vieillard aux conscils 
dune haiue hereditaire et qui depuis long-temps divisak 
leurs maisons. 3 

Francois Foscari avait essaye de la faire cesser, en 
offrant sa fille a l'illustre amiral Pierre Loredan, pour un 
de ses fils. L'alliance avait ete rejetee, et riniinitie des 

' Marin Sanuto, dans sa cbronique, Vite di' Duchi, se sert ici, suns 
en avoir eu l'iniention, d'une expression assez energique : * II doge 
era vecchio in decrepita eta e camminava con una ruazzelta. F 
quando gli ando parlogi moho constantemente che parea che non 
fosse suo Hgliulo, licet fosse ligliulo unico, e Jacopo disse, ' messor 
padre, vi prego che procuriate per me, acciocche io torni a casa mia. 
11 doge disse: 'Jacopo, va e obbediseia quello che vuole la terra, et 
non cercar piu oltre.' * 

1 Cela fut un acte que Ton ne scauroit ny suffissament louer, ny 
assez btasmer: car, ou e'estoit une excellence de vertu, qui rendoit 
ainsi son ccour impassible, ou une violence de passion qui le rendoit 
insensible, dont ne l'une ne l'autre n'est chose petite, ainsi surpas- 
sant l'ordinaire d humaine nature, et tenant ou de la divinile ou de 
!a bestialite. Mais il est plus raisonnable que le jugement des 
homines s'accorde a sa gloire, que la faiblesse des jugeans fasse des- 
croire sa vertu. Mais pour lors quand il se fut retire, tout le rnondc 
demoura sur la place, comme transy d'horreur et de frayeur, par un 
long temps sans mot dire, pour avoir veu ce qui avoit ell? fait, (i'lu- 
tarque, Valerius Publicola.) 

3 Je suis principalenient dans ce reek une rehtion manuscrite de 
la deposition de Francois Foscari qui est dans le volume intitule : 
Uaccoha di memorie storiche e annedote, per formar lo Storia dell 
eccellentissimo cor.siglio di X. (Archives de Venise.) 



356 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans tous les conseils, 
clans toutes les affaires, le doge trouvait toujours les Lo- 
redan pres a combattre ses propositions ou ses interets. 
II lui echappa un jour de dire qu'il ne se croirait reelle- 
ment prince que lorsque Pierre Loredan aurait cesse de 
vivre. Cet amiral mourut quelque temps apres d'une 
incommodite assez prompte qu'on ne put expliquer II 
n'en fallut pas davantage aux malveillants pour insinuer 
que Francois Foscari, ayant desire cette morf, pouvait 
bien l'avoir hatee. 

Ces bruits s'accrediterent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
perir subitement Mare Loredan, frere de Pierre, et cela 
dans le moment ou, en sa qualite d'avogador, il instrui- 
sait un proces contre Andre Donato, gendre du doge, 
accuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe de l'amiral 
qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le poison. 

II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre Fran- 
cois Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soupconner. 
Ouand sa vie entiere n'aurait pas dementi une imputa- 
tion aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promet- 
tait ni l'impunite ni meme l'indulgence. La mort tra- 
gique de Tun de ses predecesseurs Ten avertissait, et 
il n'avait que trop d'exemples domestiques du soin que 
le conseil des dix prenait d'bumilier le cbef de la repu- 
blique. 

Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, croyait ou 
feignait de croire avoir a venger les pertes de sa famille. 1 
Dans ses livres de comptes (car il faisait le commerce, 
comme a cette epoquepresque tous les patriciens), il avait 
inscrit de sa propre main le doge au nombre de ses debi- 
teurs, pour la mort, y etait-il dit, de mon pere et de mon 
oncle. 2 De l'autre cote du registre, il avait laisse une 
page en blanc, pour y faire mention du recouvrement 
de cette dette, et en effet, apres la perte du doge, il ecri- 
vit sur son registre: il me la payee, Vhapagata. 

Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des dix, 
en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien de profiter 
de cette occasion pour accomplirla vengeance qu'il me- 
ditait. 

Le doge, en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il venait 
de subir, pendant le proces de son fils, s'etait retire aux 
fond de son palais : incapable de se livrer aux affaires, 
consume de chagrins, accable de vieillesse, il ne se mon- 
trait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
retraite,si facile a expliquer dans un vieillard octogenaire 
si malheureux, deplut aux decemvirs, qui voulurent y 
voir un murmure contre leurs arrets. 

Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses col- 
legues du tort que les infirmite's du doge, son absence des 
conseils, apportaient a l'expedition des affaires: il finit 
par hasarder et reussit a faire agreer la proposition de le 
deposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Venise avait 
pour prince un homme dans la caducite: 1' usage et les 
lois y avaient pourvu : dans ces circonstances le doge 
etait supplee par le plus ancien du conseil. Ici, cela ne 
suffisait pas aux ennemis de Foscari. .Pour donner plus 
de solennite a la deliberation, le conseil des dix demanda 
une adjonction de vingt-cinq senateurs; mais comme on 
n'en enoncait pas l'objet, et que le grand conseil etait 
loin de le soupconner, il se trouva que Marc Foscari, 
frere du doge, Jeur fut donne pour l'un des adjoints. 
Au lieu de l'admettre a la deliberation, ou de re- 

* Hascetamen injurias quamvis imaginarias non lam ad animum 
revocaverat Jacobus Lauredanus defunctorum nepos quam in abece- 
darium vindictam opportuna. (Palazzi Fasti ducales.) 

2 Ibid., et l'Histoire Venetienne de Vianolo. 



clamer contre ce choix, on enferma ce senateur dans 
une chambre separee, et on lui fit jurer de ne jamais 
parler de cette exclusion qu'il eprouvait, en lui decla- 
rant qu'il y allait de sa vie ■ ce qui n'empecha pas qu'on 
inscrivit son nom au bas du decret, comme s'il y eut 
pris part. l 

Quand on en vint a la deliberation, Loredan la provo- 
qua en ces termes. 2 « Si l'utilite publique doit imposer 
silence a tous les interets prives, je ne doute pas que 
nous ne prenions aujourd'hui une mesure que la patrie 
reclame, que nous lui devons. Les etats ne peuvent 
se maintenir dans un ordre de choses immuable : vous 
n'avez qua voir comme le notre est change, et combien 
il le serait davantage s'il n'y avait une autorite assez 
ferme pour y porter remede. J'ai honte de vous faire 
remarquer la confusion qui regne dans les conseils, le 
desordre des deliberations, fencombrement des af- 
faires, et la legerete avec laquelle les plus importantes 
sont decidees ; la licence de notre jeunesse, le peu 
d'assiduite des magistrats, Introduction de nouveau- 
tes dangereuses. Quel est l'effet de ces desordres? 
de compromettre notre consideration. Quelle en est 
la cause ? 1'absence dun chef capable de moderer les 
uns, de diriger les autres, de donner l'exemple a tous, 
et de maintenir la force des lois. 

« Ou est le temps ou nos decrets etaient aussitot exe- 
cutes que rendus? ou Francois Carrare se trouvait 
investi dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir etre seulement 
informe que nous voulions lui faire la guerre? Nous 
avons vu tout le contraire dans laderniere guerre contre 
le due de Milan. Malheureuse la republique qui est 
sans chef! 

« Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenients et 
leurs suites deplorables, pour vous affliger, pour vous 
effrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que vous etes 
les maitres, les conservateurs de cet etat fonde par vos 
peres, et de la liberte que nous devons a leurs travaux, 
a leurs institutions. Ici, le mal indique le remede. 
Nous n'avons point de chef, il nous en faut un. Notre 
prince est notre ouvrage, nous avons done le droit de 
juger son merite quand il s'agit de l'elire, et son inca- 
pacite quand elle se manifeste. J'ajouterai que le 
peuple, encore bien qu'il n'ait pas le droit de pronon- 
cer sur les actions de ses maitres, apprendra ce chan- 
gement avec transport. C'est la Providence, je n'en 
doute pas, qui lui inspire elle-memes ces dispositions, 
pour vous avertir que la republique reclame cette reso- 
lution, et que le sort de l'etat est en vos mains.» 

Ce discours n'eprouva que de timides contradictions; 
cependant, la deliberation dura huit jours. L'assemblee, 
ne se jugeant pas aussi sure de l'approbation universelle 
que l'orateur voulait le lui faire croire, desirai t que le doge 
donnat lui-meme sa demission. II l'avait deja proposee 
deux fois, et on n'avait pas voulu l'accepter. 

Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut revocable : il 
etait au contraire a vie, et les exemples qu'on pouvait citer 
de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient que de telles revo- 
lutions avaient toujours ete le resultat d'un mouvement 
populaire. 

Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait etre depose, ce n'etait 
pasassurement par un tribunal compose d'un petit nom- 
bre de membres, iustitue pour punir les crimes, et nulle- 

1 II faut cependant remarquer que dans la notice ou Ton raconte 
ce fait, la deliberation est rapporte^e, que les vingt-cinq adjoints y 
sont nommes, et que le nom de Marc Foscari ne s'y trouve pas. 

2 Cette harangue se lit dans la notice citee ci-dessus. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



35' 



ment investi du droit derevoquer ce que le corps souve- 
rain de l'etat avait fait. 

Cependant le tribunal arreta que les six conseillers de 
la seigneurie , et les chefs du conseil des dix , se trans- 
porteraient aupres du doge, pour lui signifier que l'ex- 
cellentissime conseil avai t j uge convenable qu'il abdiquat 
une dignite dont son age ne lui permettait plus derem- 
plir les fonctions. On lui donna i5oo ducats d'or pour 
son entretien , et vingt-quatre beures pour se decider. » 

Foscari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de gra- 
vi te, que deux fois il avait voulu se demettre de sa charge ; 
qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avait exige de lui le 
serment de ne plus reiterer cette demande; que la Pro- 
vidence avait prolonge ses jours pour l'eprouver et pour 
l'aftliger; que cependant on n'etait pas en droit de repro- 
cher sa longue vie a un homme qui avai t employe quatre- 
viugt-quatre ans au service de la republique , qu'il etait 
pret encore a lui sacrifier savie; mais que, pour sa di- 
gnite, il la tenait de la republique entiere, et qu'il se 
reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, quand la volonte ge- 
nerate se serait legalement manifestee. 

Le lendemain , al'heure indiquee , les conseillers etles 
chefs des dix se presentment. II ue voulut pas leur don- 
ner d'autre reponse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-le-champ, 
lui envoya demauder encore une fois sa resolution, seance 
tenante, et, la reponse ayant ete la meme, on prononca 
que le doge etait releve de son serment et depose de sa 
dignite : on lui assigna une pension de 1 5oo ducats d'or, 
en lui enjoignant de sortir du palais dans huit jours, sous 
peine de voir tous ses biens confisques. 2 

Le lendemain ce decret fut porte au doge, et ce fut 
Jacques Loredan qui eut la cruelle joie de le lui presen- 
ter. Jl repondit : « Si j'avais pu prevoir que ma vieil- 
lesse fut prejudiciable a l'etat, le chef de la republique 
ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat pour preferer sa 
dignite a la patrie; mais cette vie lui ayant ete utile 
pendant tant d'annees, je voulais lui en consacrer jus- 
qu'au dernier moment. Le decret est rendu , je m'y 
conformerai. » Apres avoir parle ainsi , il se depouilla 
des marques de sa dignite, remit l'anneau ducal qui fut 
brise en sa presence , et des lejour suivant il quitta ce pa- 
lais , qu'il avait habite pendant trente-cinq ans , accom- 
pagne de son frere, de ses parents, et de ses amis. Un 
secretaire, qui se trouva sur le perron, l'invita a des- 
cendre par un escalier derobe, afin d'eviter la foule du 
peuple, qui s' etait rassemble dans les cours, mais il s'y 
refusa , disant qu'il voulait descendre par oil il etait 
monte ; et quand il fut au has de 1'escalier des geants, il 
se retourna , appuye sur sa bequille , vers le palais , en 
proferant ces paroles : « Mes services m'y avaient ap- 
pele , la malice de mes ennemis m'en fait sortir. » 

La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
peut-etre desire sa mort, etait emue de respect et d'at- 
tendrissement. 3 Rentre dans sa maison , il recommanda 
a sa famille d'oublier les injures de ses ennemis. Per- 
sonne dans les divers corps de l'etat ne se chit en droit 
de s'etonner, qu'un prince inamovible eut ete depose sans 
qu'on lui reprochat rien; que l'etat eut perdu son chef , 
a l'insu du senat , et du corps souverain lui-meme. Le 
peuple seul laissa echapper quelques regrets : une pro- 
clamation du conseil des dix prescrivit le silence le plus 
absolu sur cette affaire, sous peine de mort. 

1 Ce decret est rapporte textuellement dans la notice. 

2 La notice rapporte aussi ce decret. 

3 On lit dans la notice ces propre mots : « Se fosse stato in loro 
f otere volentieri Io avrebbero restituito.* 



Avant de donner un successeur a Francois Foscari. 
une nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui de'fendait au doge 
d'ouvrir et de lire, autrement qu'en presence de ses con- 
seillers, les depeches des ambassadeurs de la republique, 
et les lettres des princes etrangers T . 

Les electeurs entrerent au conclave , et nommerent au 
dogat Paschal Malipier, le 3o octobre i45~. La cloche 
de Saint-Marc, qui annoncait a Venise son no uvea u 
prince, vint frapper l'oreille de Francois Foscari ; cette 
fois sa fermete l'abandonna, il eprouva un tel saisisse- 
ment qu'il mourut le lendemain 2 . 

La republique arreta qu'on lui rendraitles memes hou- 
neurs funebres que sil fut mort dans 1'exercice de sa 
dignite; mais lorsqu'ou se presenta pour enlever ses 
restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marine Xani,declara 
quelle ne le souffrirait point; qu'on ne devait pas traiteF 
en prince apres sa mort celui que vivant on avait de- 
pouille de la couronne , et que, puisqu'il avait consume 
ses biens au service de l'etat, elle saurait consacrer sa dot 
a lui faire rendre les derniers honneurs. 3 On ne tint 
aucun compte de cette resistance, et malgre les protes- 
tations de l'ancienne dogaresse, le corps fut enleve, re- 
vetu des ornemens ducaux, expose en public, et les ob- 
seques furent celebrees avec la pompe accoutumee. Le 
nouveau doge assista au convoi en robe de senateur. 

La pitie qu'avait inspiree le malheur de ce vieillard, 
ne fut pas tout-a-fait sterile. Un an apres, on osa dire 
que le conseil des dix avait outrepasse ses pouvoirs , et il 
lui fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'ingerer 
a l'avenir de juger le prince , a moins que ce ne fut pout- 
cause de felonie. 4 

Un acte d'autorite tel que la deposition d'un doge in- 
amovible de sa nature auroit pu exciter un soulevement 
general , ou au moins occasioner une division dans une 
republique autrement constituee que Yenise. Mais de- 
puis troisans, il existait dans celle-ci une magistrature, 
ou plutot une autorite, devant laquelle tout devait se 
taire. 



Extrait de I'Histoire des Republiques Ilaliennes du 
moyen age, par J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi, tomX. 

Le doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce traite une 
guerre non moins dangereuse que celle qu'il avait ter- 
minee presque en meme temps par le traite de Lodi , 
etait alors parvenu a une extreme vieillesse. Francois 
Foscari occupait cette premiere dignite de l'etat des le 
i5 avril , 1423. Ouoiqu'il fut deja age de plus de cin- 
quante-un ans a 1'epoque de son election, il etait cepen- 
dant le plus jeune des quarante-un electeurs. II avait 
eu beaucoup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il convoi- 
tait,et son election avait ete conduite avec beaucoup 
d'adresse. Pendant plusieurs tours de scrutin ses amis 
ies plus zeles s'etaient abstenus de lui donner leur suf- 
frage; pour que les autresneleconsiderassentpascomme 
un concurrent redoutable. 5 Le conseil des dix craignait 
son credit parmi la noblesse pauvre, parcequ'il avait 
cherche a se la rendre favorable , tandis qu'il etait pro- 
curateur de Saint- Marc, en faisant employer plus de 
trente mille ducats a doter des jeunes lilies de bonne 

' Hist, di Venitia, diPaolo Morosini, lib. j3. 

2 Hist, di Pietro Justiniani, lib. 8. 

3 Hist. d'Egnatio, lib. 6, cap. 7. 

4 Ce decret est du 25 Octobre, 1^58. La notice le rapporte. 

5 Marin Sanuto, Vite de' Duchi di Venezia, p. 967. 



358 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



maison, ou a etablir des jeunes gentilshommes. On 
craignait encore sa nombreuse famille , car alors il etait 
pere de quatre enfans , et marie de nouveau ; enfin on 
redoutait son ambition et son gout pour la guerre. I/opi- 
nion que ses adversaires s'elaient formee de lui fut veri- 
fiee par les evenements; pendant trente-quatre ans que 
Foscari fut a la tete de la republique, elle ne cessa point 
de combattre. Si leo hostilites etaient suspendues du- 
rant quelques mois, c'etait pour recommencer bientot 
avec plus de vigueur. Ge fut l'epoque ou Venise etendit 
son empire sur Brescia , Bergame , Ravenne , et Creme , 
ou elle fouda sa domination de Lombardie, et parut 
sans cesse sur le point d'asservir toute cette province. 
Profond, courageux, inebranlable, Foscari communiqua 
aux conseils sonpropre caractere, etses talents lui brent 
obtenir plus d'influence sur la republique, que n'avaient 
exerce la plupart de ses predecesseurs. Mais si son am- 
bition avait eu pour but l'agraudissement de sa famille, 
elle fut cruellement trompee : trois de ses fils moururent 
dans les huit anne.es qui suivirent son election : le qua- 
trieme, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est per- 
petuee, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des dix, et 
empoisouna par ses malheurs les jours de son pere. l 

En effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
envers le chef de 1'etat , lorsqu'il le voyait plus fort par 
ses talents et sa popularite, veillaitsans cesse sur Foscari, 
pourle punir de son credit et de sa gloire. Au mois de 
fevrier 144^ , Michel Bevilacqua, Florentin, exile a Ve- 
uise, accusa en secret Jacques Foscari aupres des inqui- 
siteurs d'etat, d'avoir recududuc Philippe Visconti,des 
presents d'argent et de joyaux, par les mains des gens de 
sa maison. Telle etait l'odieuse procedure adoptee a 
Venise que sur cette accusation secrete le fils du doge , 
du representant de la majeste de la republique, fut mis 
a la torture. On lui arracha par l'estrapade l'aveu des 
charges portees contre lui,* il fut relegue pour le reste 
de ses jours a Napoli de Romanie , avec obligation de se 
presenter chaque matin au commandant de la place. 2 
Gependant le vaisseau qui le portait ayant touche a 
Trieste , Jacob , grievement malade des suites de la tor- 
ture , et plus encore de l'humiliation qu'il avait eprou- 
vee, demanda en grace au conseil des dix de n'etre pas 
envoye plus loin. 11 obtint cette faveur par une deli- 
beration du 28 decembre 1446 j ^ f ut rappele a Trevise, 
et il eut la liberte d'habiter tout le Trevisan indifferem- 
ment. 3 

II vivait en paix a Trevise; et la fille de Leonard Con- 
tarini, qu'il avait epousee le io fevrier 144 1 > etait venue 
le joindre dans son exil, lorsque , le 5 novembre i45o, 
Almoro Donato, chef du conseil des dix, fut assassine. 
Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano Gritti et 
Antonio Venieri , porterent leurs soupcons sur Jacob 
Foscari, parcequ un domestique a lui , nomme Olivier, 
avait ete vu ce soir-la meme a Venise, et avait des pre- 
miers donne la nouvelle de cet assassinat. Olivier fut 
mis a la torture, mais il niajusqu'a la fin, avec un cou- 
rage inebranlable , le crime dont on l'accusait, quoique 
ses juges eussent la barbarie de lui faire donner jusqu'a 
quatre-vingt tours d'estrapade. Cependant , comme 
Jacob Foscari avait de puissans motifs d'inimitie contre 
le conseil des dix qui l'avait condamne, et qui temoignait 
de la haine au doge son pere, on essaya de mettre a son 
tour Jacob a la torture, et Ion prolongea contre lui ces 

1 Marin Saniito, p. 968. 

2 Ibid. p. 968. 

5 Ibid. Vite, p. 11 23. 



affreux tourmens , sans reussir a en tirer aucune con- 
fession. Malgre sa delegation, le conseil des dix le 
condamna a etre transported a la Canee , et accorda une 
recompense a son delateur. Mais les horribles douleurs 
que Jacob Foscari avait eprouvees, avaient trouble sa 
raison ; ses persecuteurs, touches de ce dernier malbeur, 
permirent qu'on le ramenat a Venise le 26 mai 145 1. 
II embrassa son pere, il puisa dans ses exhortations 
quelque courage et quelque calme, et il fut reconduit 
immediatement a la Canee. ' Sur ces entrefaites , Nico- 
las Erizzo , hommc dejk note pour un precedent crime, 
confessa , en mourant, que c'etait lui qui avait tue Al- 
moro Donato. 2 

Le malheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avait deja 
cherche, a plusieurs reprises, a abdiquer une dignite si 
funeste a lui-meme et a sa famille. II lui semblait 
que, redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, comme il 
n'inspirerait plus de crainte ou de la jalousie, onn'acca- 
blerait plus son fils par ces effroyables persecutions. 
xVbattu par la mort de ses premiers enfants, il avait vou- 
lu, des le 26 juin 1433, deposer une diguite durant 
l'exercice de laquelle sa patrie avait ete tourmentee par 
la guerre , par la peste , et par des malheurs de tout 
genre. 3 II renouvela cette proposition apres les juge- 
mens rendus contre son fils ; mais le conseil des dix le 
retenait forcement sur le trone, comme il retenait son 
fils dans les fers. 

En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaque 
jour au gouverneur de la Canee, reclamait contre 1 in- 
justice de sa derniere sentence , sur laquelle la confession 
d'Erizzo ne laissait plus de doutes. En vain il deman- 
dait grace au farouche conseil des dix ; il ne pouvait 
obtenir aucuue reponse. Le desir de revoir son pere et 
sa mere, arrives tous deux au dernier terme de la vieil- 
iesse, le desir de revoir une patrie dont la cruaute ne 
meritait pas un si tendre amour , se changerent en lui 
en une vraie fureur. Ne pouvant retourner a Venise 
pour y vivre libre,il voulut du moins y aller chercher 
un supplice. II ecrivit au due de Milan a la fin de mai 
i456, pour implorer sa protection aupres du senat : et 
sachant qu'une telle lettre serait consideree comme un 
crime , il 1'exposa lui-meme dans un lieu ou il etait sur 
quelle serait saisie par les espions qui l'entouraient. En 
effet, la lettre etant deferee au conseil des dix, on 1'en- 
voya chercher aussitot, et il fut reconduit a Venise le 
19 juillet 1456. 4 

Jacob Foscari ne nia point sa lettre , il raconta en 
meme temps dans quel but il l'avait ecrite, et comment 
il l'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. 
Malgre ces aveux , Foscari fut remis a la torture , et on 
lui donna trente tours d'estrapade , pour voir s'il confir- 
merait ensuite ses depositions. Ouand on le detacha 
de la corde , on le trouva dechire par ces horribles se- 
cousses. Les juges permirent alors a son pere, a sa 
mere, a sa femme, et a ses fils , d'aller le voir dans sa 
prison. Le vieux Foscari , appuye sur son baton , ne se 
traina qu'avec peine dans la chambre ou son fils unique 
etait pause de ses blessures. Ge fils demandait encore 
la grace de mourir dans sa maison. — « Retourne a ton 
exii, mon fils, puisque ta patrie l'ordonne,» lui dit le 
doge, « et soumets-toi a sa volonte. » Mais en rcntrant 

1 Marin Sanuto, p. n38.— M. Ant. Sabellico. Ecca III, L. IV, f. 

2 Ibid. n3 9 . 

3 Ibid. p. io32. 
* Ibid. p. 1162. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



35 9 



dans son palais, ce malheureux vieillard s'evanouit, 
epuise par la violence qu'il s'etait faite. Jacob devait 
encore passer une annee en prison a la Canee, avant 
qu'on lui renuit la meme liherte limitee a laquelle il 
etait reduit avant cette evenement; mais a peine fut-il 
dcbarque sur cette terre d'exil, qu'il y mourut de dou- 
leur. l 

Des lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge acca- 
ble d'annees et de chagrins, ne recouvra plus la force 
de son corps ou celle de son ame; il n'assistait plus a 
aucun des conseils, et il ne pouvait plus remplir aucune 
des fonctions de sa dignite. 11 etait entre dans sa 
quatre-vingt-sixieme annee, et si le conseil des dix avait 
ete susceptible de quelque pitie, il aurait attendu en 
silence la fin, sans doute prochaine, d'une carriere mar- 
quee par tant de gloire et tant de malheurs. Mais le 
cbef du conseil des dix etait alors Jacques Loredano, 
fils de Marc, et neveu de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui 
toute leur vie avaient ete les ennemis acharnes du vieux 
doge. Us avaient transmis leur haine a leurs enfants, 
et cette vieille rancune n'etait pas encore satisfaite. 2 A 
l'instigation de Loredano, Jerome Barbarigo, inquisi- 
teur d'etat, proposa au conseil des dix, au mois d'octo- 
bre 1^7, de soumettre Foscari a une nouvelle humi- 
liation. Des que ce magistrat ne pouvait plus remplir 
ses fonctions Barbarigo demanda qu'on nommat un 
autre doge. Le conseil, qui avait refuse par deux fois 
l'abdication de Foscari, parceque la constitution ne 
pouvait la permettre, hesita avant de se mettre en con- 
tradiction avec ses propres decrets. Les discussions 
dans le conseil et la junte se prolongerent pendant buit 
jours, jusque fort avant dans la nuit. Cependant on 
fit entrer dans l'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur 
de Saint-Marc, et frere du doge, pour qu'il fiit lie par 
le redoutable serment du secret, et qu'il ne put arreter 
les mesures de ses ennemis. Enfin, le conseil se rendit 
aupres du doge, et lui demanda d'abdiquer volontaire- 
ment un emploi qu'il ne pouvait plus exercer. « J'ai 
jure, » repondit le vieillard, « de remplir jusqua ma 
mort, selon mon honneur et ma conscience, les fonc- 
tions auxquelles ma patrie ma appele. Je ne puis me 
deJier moi-meme de mon serment ; qu'un ordre des con- 
seils dispose de moi, je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne le 
devancerai pas.» Alors une nouvelle deliberation du 
conseil delia Francois Foscari de son serment ducal, lui 
assura une pension de deux mille ducats pour le reste 
de sa vie, et lui ordonna d'evaeuer en trois jours le 
palais, et de deposer les ornemens de sa dignite. Le 
doge ayant remarque parmi les conseillers qui lui por- 
terent cette ordre, un cbef de la quarantie qu'il ne con- 
naissait pas, demanda son nom : « Je suis le fils de Marco 
Memmo,» lui dit le conseiller.— « Ah ! ton pere etait 
mon ami,» lui dit le vieux doge en soupirant. II donna 
aussitot des ordres pour qu'on transportat ses effets 
dans une maison a lui; et le lendemain, 23 octobre, on 
le vit, se soutenant a peine, et appuye sur son vieux 
frere, redescendre ces memes escaliers sur lesquels, 
trente-quatre ans auparavant, onl'avait vu installer avec 
tant de pompe, et traverser ces memes salles ou la repu- 
blique avait recu ses sermens. Le peuple entier pa rut 
indigne de tant de durete exercee contre un vieillard 
qu'il respectait et qu'il aimait ; mais le conseil des dix 



» 



Marin Sanuto, p. 1 t63.— Navagiero Stor. Venez. p. 1 118. 
Vetlor Sandi Storia civile di Veneziana, P. II, L,. VIII, p. 7 i5. 



fit publier une defense de parler de cette revolution 
sous peine d'etre traduit devant les inquisiteurs d'etat. 
Le 20 octobre Pascal Malipieri, procurateur de Saint- 
Marc, fut elu pour successeur de Foscari; celui-ci n'eut 
pas neanmoins I'humiliation de vivre sujet la ou il 
avait regne. En entendant le son des cloches qui son- 
naient en actions de grace pour cette election, il mourut 
subitement d'une hemorragie causee par une veine qui 
s'eclata dans sa poitrine . '- 



« Le doge, blesse de trouver constamment un contra- 
dicteur et un censeur si amer dans son frere, lui dit un 
jour en plein conseil: « Messire Augustin, vous faites 
tout votre possible pour hater ma mort; vous vous flat- 
tez de me succeder; mais si les autres vous connaissent 
aussi bien que je vous connais, ils n'auront garde de 
vous elire.» La dessus il se leva, emu de colere, rentra 
dans son appartement, et mourut quelques jours apres. 
Ce frere contre lequel il s'etait emporte fut precisement 
le successeur qu'on lui donna. C etait un merite dont 
on aimait a tenir compte, surtout a un parent, de s'etre 
mis en opposition avec le chef de la republique. 2 » Daru, 
Histoire de Fenise, vol. ii. sec. xi. p. 533. 



In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
« Italy,» I perceive the expression of « Rome of the 
Ocean» applied to Venise. The same phrase occurs in 
the «TVo Foscari.» My publisher can vouch for me 
that the tragedy was written and sent to England some 
time before I had seen Lady Morgan's work, which I 
only received on the 16th of August. I hasten, however, 
to notice the coincidence, and to yield the originality of 
the phrase to her who first placed it before the public. 
I am the more anxious to do this, as I am informed (for 
I have seen but few of the specimens, and those accident- 
ally) that there have been lately brought against me 
charges of plagiarism. I have also had an anonymous 
sort of threatening intimation of the same kind, appa- 
rently with the intent of extorting money. To such 
charges I have no answer to make. One of them is lu- 
dicrous enough. I am reproached for having formed 
the description of a shipwreck in verse from the narra- 
tives of many actual shipwrecks in prose, selecting such 
materials as were most striking. Gibbon makes it a 
merit in Tasso « to have copied the minutest details of the 
siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In me it may 
be a demerit, I presume ; let it remain so. Whilst I have 
been occupied in defending Pope's character, the lower 
orders of Grub-street appear to have been assailing mine; 
this is as it should be, both in them and in me. One of 
the accusations in the nameless epistle alluded to is still 
more laughable : it states seriously that I « received five 
hundred pounds for writing advertisements for Day 
and Martin's patent blacking!" This is the highest 
compliment to my literary powers which I ever received. 
It states also « that a person has been trying to make 

1 Marin Sanuto, Vite de' Duohi di Venezia, p. 1164.— Chronicum 
Eugubinum, T.XXI, p. 992.— Christoforo da Soldo Istoria Bresciana, 
T. XXI, p. 891.— Xavigero Storia Veneziana, T. XXIII, p. 1120.— 
M. A. Sabellico. Deca III, L. VIII, f. 101. 

2 The Venetians appear to have had a particular turn for breaking 
the hearts of their Doges ; the above is another instance of the kind 
in the Doge Marco Barbarigo : he was succeeded by his brother Agos- 
tino Barbarigo, whose chief merit is above-mentioned. 



36o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



acquaintance with Mr Townsend, a gentleman of the 
law, who was with me on business in Venice three 
years ago, for the purpose of obtaining any defama- 
tory particulars of my life from this occasional visitor.» 
Mr Tovnsend is welcome to say what he knows. I men- 
tion these particulars merely to show the world in ge- 
neral what the literary lower world contains, and their 
way of setting to work. Another charge made, I am 
told, in the « Literary Gazette* is, that I wrote the notes 
to « Queen Mab;» a work which I never saw till some 
time after its publication, and which I recollect showing 
to Mr Sotheby as a poem of great power and imagi- 
nation. I never wrote a line of the notes, nor ever saw 
them except in their published form. No one knows 
better than their real author, that his opinions and 
mine differ materially upon the metaphysical portion 
of that work ; though, in common with all who are not 
blinded by baseness and bigotry, I highly admire the 
poetry of that and his other publications. 

Mr Southey, too, in his pious preface to a poem whose 
blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of Wat Tyler, 
because it is equally absurd with that sincere production, 
calls upon the "legislature to look to it,» as the tolera- 
tion of such writings led to the French Revolution : not 
such writings as Wat Tyler, but as those of the « Satanic 
School. » This is not true, and Mr Southey knows it to be 
not true. Every French writer of any freedom was perse- 
cuted ; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel and 
Diderot were sent to the Bastille, and a perpetual Avar 
was waged with the whole class by the existing despotism. 
In the next place, the French Revolution was not occa- 
sioned by any writings whatsoever, but must have occur- 
red had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to 
attribute every thing to the French Revolution, and the 
French Revolution to every thing but its real cause. 
That cause is obvious — the government exacted too 
much, and the people could neither give nor bear more. 
Without this, the Encyclopedists might have written 
their fingers off without the occurence of a single alter- 
ation. And the English Revolution — (the first, I mean) 
what was it occasioned by? The puritans were surely 
as pious and moral as Wesley or his biographer? Acts — 
acts on the part of government, and not writings against 
them, have caused the past convulsions, and are tending 
to the future. 

I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolu- 
tionist: I wish to see the English constitution restored 
and not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally 
one by temper, with the greater part of my present pro- 
perty in the funds, what have /to gain by a revolution? 
Perhaps I have more to lose in every way than Mr Sou- 
they, with all his places and presents for panegyrics and 
abuse into the bargain. But that a revolution is inevit- 
able, I repeat. The government may exult over the 
repression of petty tumults ; these are but the receding 
waves repulsed and broken for a moment on the shore, 
while the great tide is still rolling on and gaining ground 
with every breaker. Mr Southey accuses us of attacking 
the religion of the country ; and is he abetting it by writ- 
ing lives of Wesley"! One mode of worship is merely de- 
stroyed by another. There never was, nor ever will be, a 
country without a religion. We shall be told of France 
again : but it w 7 as only Paris and a frantic party, which for 



a moment upheld their dogmatic nonsense of theo-phi- 
lanthropy. The church of England, if overthrown, will 
be swept away by the sectarians, and not by the sceptics. 
People are too wise, too well-informed, too certain of their 
own immense importance in the realms of space, ever to 
submit to the impiety of doubt. There may be a few 
such diffident speculators, like water in the pale sunbeam 
of human reason, but they are very few; and their opi- 
nions, without enthusiasm or appeal to the passions, can 
never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they are perse- 
cuted: that, to be sure, will increase any thing. 

Mr S. with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the an- 
ticipated « death-bed repentance* of the objects of his 
dislike; and indulges himself in a pleasant "Vision of 
Judgment,* in prose as well as verse, full of impious 
impudence. What Mr S.'s sensations or ours may be 
in the awful moment of leaving this state of existence, 
neither he nor we can pretend to decide. In common, 
I presume, with most men of any reflection, / have not 
waited for a « death-bed» to repent of many of my 
actions, notwithstanding the « diabolical pride» which 
this pitiful renegado in his rancour would impute to 
those who scorn him. Whether, upon the whole, the 
good or evil of my deeds may preponderate, is not for 
me to ascertain ; but, as my means and opportunities have 
been greater, I shall limit my present defence to an as- 
sertion (easily proved, if necessary) that I, « in my de- 
gree,)) have done more real good in any one given year, 
since I was twenty, than Mr Southey in the whole course 
of his shifting and turncoat existence. There are several 
actions to which I can look back with an honest pride, 
not to be damped by the calumnies of a hireling. There 
are others to which I recur with sorrow and repentance ; 
but the only act of my life of which Mr Southey can 
have any real knowledge, as it was one which brought 
me in contact with a near connexion of his own, did no 
dishonour to that connexion nor to me. 

I am not ignorant of Mr Southey's calumnies ou a dif- 
ferent occasion, knowing them to be such, which he 
scattered abroad, on his return from Switzerland, against 
me and others : they have done him no good in this 
world : and, if his creed be the right one, they will do 
him less in the next. What his « death-bed» may be, 
it is not my province to predicate : let him settle it with 
his Maker, as I must do with mine. There is something 
at once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant scrib- 
bler of all works sitting down to deal damnation and de- 
struction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat Tyler, the 
Apotheosis of George the Third, and the Elegy on Martin 
the regicide, all shuffled together in his writing-desk. 
One of his consolations appears to be a Latin note from 
a work of a Mr Landor, the author of « Gebir,» whose 
friendship for Robert Southey will, it seems, « be an 
honour to him when the ephemeral disputes and ephe- 
meral reputations of the day are forgotten.)) I for one 
neither envy him « the friendship,)) nor the glory in 
reversion which is to accrue from it, like Mr Thelus- 
son's fortune, in the third and fourth generation. — 
This friendship will probably be as memorable as his 
own epics, which (as I quoted to him ten or twelve years 
ago in English Bards) Porson said « would be remem- 
bered when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, and not till 
then.» For the present, I leave him. 



CAIN. 

©am; 

A MYSTERY. 



36i 



serpent was more subtil than any 



of the field which the Lord God had mad«.— Gkk. iii, i. 



TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

BY HIS OBLIGED FIUEKD, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The following scenes are entitled « a Mystery,» in con- 
formity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
similar subjects, which were styled « Mysteries, » or « Mo- 
ralities." The author has by no means taken the same 
liberties with his subject which were common former- 
ly, as may be seen by any reader curious enough to 
refer to those very profane productions, whether in 
English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has 
endeavoured to preserve the language adapted to his 
characters; and where it is (and this is but rarely) taken 
from actual Scripture, he has made as little alteration, 
even of words, as the rhythm would permit. The 
reader will recollect that the book of Genesis does not 
state that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by « the 
Serpent ;» and that only because he was « the most 
subtil of all the beasts of the field. » Whatever interpre- 
tation the Rabbins and the Fathers may have put upon 
this, I must take the words as I find them, and reply 
with Rishop Watson upon similar occasions, when the 
Fathers were quoted to him, as Moderator in the Schools 
of Cambridge, « Rehold the Book!» — holding up the 
Scripture. It is to be recollected that my present sub- 
ject has nothing to do with the New Testament, to 
which no reference can be here made without ana- 
chronism. With the poems upon similar topics I have 
not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have 
never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's 
« Death of Abel» I have never read since I was eight 
years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
my recollection is delight ; but of the contents, I remem- 
ber only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
Thirza. — In the following pages I have called them 
« Adah» and « Zillah,» the earliest female names which 
occur in Genesis; they were those of Lantech's wives : 
those of Cain and Abel are not called by their names. 
Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have 
caused the same in expression, I know nothing, and 
care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few 
chuse to recollect) that there is no allusion to a future 
state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the 



Old Testament. For a reason for this extraordinary 
omission he may consult « Warburton's Divine Lega- 
tion;» whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet 
been assigned. I have therefore supposed it new to 
Cain, without, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was dif- 
ficult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon 
the same subjects ; but I have done what I could to 
restrain him within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of 
the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has 
not the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, 
but merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has 
partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that 
the world had been destroyed several times before the 
creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
different strata and the bones of enormous and un- 
known animals found in them, is not contrary to the 
Mosaic account, but rather confirms it; as no human 
bones have yet been discovered in those strata, al- 
though those of many known animals are found near 
the remains of the unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, 
that the pre-adamite world was also peopled by rational 
beings much more intelligent than man, and propor- 
tionably powerful to the mammoth, etc., etc. is, of 
course, a poetical fiction, to help him to make out his 
case. 

I ought to add, that there is a « Tramelogedia» of 
Alfieri, called « Abel.» — I have never read that nor any 
other of the posthumous works of the writer, except 
his life. 



DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 





MEN. 


WOMEN. 


Adam. 




Eve. 


Cain. 




Adah. 


Abel. 




Zillah. 
SPIRITS. 

Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 

46 



362 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


! 


ADAM. 


CAIN. 


Dost thou not live? 

CAIN. 

Must I not die? 




ACT I. 


EVE. 




Alas! 


SCENE I. 


The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 


The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sitnrise. 


To fall. 


Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zill ah, offering a 
Sacrifice. 


ADAM. 

And we must gather it again. 


Oh, God! why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge? 


ADAM. 


CAIN. 


God, the Eternal! Infinite! All-Wise! — 


And wherefore pluckd ye not the tree of life? 


Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 


Ye might have then defied him. 


Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 


ADAM. 


Jehovah, with returning light, all hail! 


Oh! my son, 


EVE. 


Blaspheme not : these are serpents' words. 


God ! who didst name the day, and separate 


CAIN. 


Morning from night, till then divided never — 


Why not? 


Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 


The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge; 


Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 


It was the tree of life : — knowledge is good, 


ABEL. 


And life is good; and how can both be evil? 


God! who didst call the elements into 


EVE. 


Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 


My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin, 


And night, and worlds which these illuminate 


Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 


Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 


My misery in thine. I have repented. 


And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail 1 . 


Let me not see my offspring fall into 


ADAH. 


The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 


God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ' 


Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 


Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 


Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 


To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 


Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son ! 


Let me love thee and them: — All hail! all haill 


ADAM. 


ZILLAH. 


Our orisons completed, let us hence, 


Oh, God! who loving, making, blessing all, 


Each to his task of toil— not heavy, though 


Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in, 


Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 


And drive my father forth from Paradise, 


Her fruits with little labour. 


Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 


EVE. 


ADAM. 


Cain, my son, 


Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thou silent? 


Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd, 


CAIN. 


And do as he doth. 


Why should I speak? 


[Exit Adam and Eve. 


ADAM. 


ZILLAH. 


To pray. 


Wilt thou not, my brother? 


CAIN. 


ABEL. 


Have ye not pray'd? 


Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow, 


ADAM. 


Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 


1 We have, most fervently. 


The Eternal anger? 


CAIN. 


ADAH. 


And loudly : I 


My beloved Cain, 


Have heard you. 


Wilt thou frown even on me? 


ADAM. 


CAIN. 


So will God, I trust. 


No, Adah ! no ; 


ABEL. 

Amen ' 

ADAM. 

But thou, my eldest-born, art silent still. 

CAIN. 

'T is better I should be so. 


I fain would be alone a little while. 


Abel, I 'm sick at heart; but it will pass ; 


Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 


And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind; 


Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 


ADAM. 


I '11 follow you anon. 


Wherefore so? 


ADAH. 


CAIN. 


If not, I will 


I have nought to ask. 


Return to seek you here. 


ADAM. 


ABEL. 


Nor aught to thank for? 


The peace of God 


CAIN. 


Be on your spirit, brother! 


No. 


[Exit Abel, Zillah, and Adah. 






CAIN. 



36; 



CAIN (solus). 

And this is 
Life ! — Toil! and wherefore should I toil? — because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had / done in this? — I was unborn, 
I sought not to be born; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman? or, 
Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
The fairest in the centre 1 They have but 
One answer to all questions, « 't was his will, 
And he is good.» How know I that? Because 
He is all-powerful must all-good, too, follow 1 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I mus-t feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we here?— A shape like to the angels, 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect, 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls, 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
The cherubim-defended battlements ? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 
Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 
Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
As he hath been, and might be: sorrow seems 
Half of his immortality. And is it 
So? and can aught grieve save humanity? 
He cometh. 

Enter Lucifer. 

LUCIFER. 

Mortal ! 

CAIN. 

Spirit, who art thou? 

LUCIFER. 

Master of spirits. 

CAIN. 

And being so, canst thou 
Leave them, and walk with dust? 

LUCIFER. 

I know the thoughts 
Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

CAIN. 

How ! 
You know my thoughts? 

LUCIFER. 

They are the thoughts of all 
Worthy of thought;— 'tis your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

CAIN. 

What immortal pari? 
This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too soon; and all the fruit is death ! 

LUCIFER. 

They have deceived thee; thou shall live. 

CAIN. 

I live, 
But live to die: and, living, see no thing 



To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 

LUCIFER. 

Thou livest, and must live for ever: think not 
The earth, which is thine outward covering, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

CAIN. 

No less .' and why 
No more ? 

LUCIFER. 

It may be thou shalt be as we. 

CAIN. 

And ye? 

LUCIFER. 

Are everlasting. 

CAIN. 

Are ye happy ? 

LUCIFER. 

We are mighty. 

CAIN. 

Are ye happy? 

LUCIFER. 

No : art thou ? 

CAIN. 

How should I be so? Look on me! 

LUCIFER. 

Poor clay ! 
And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 

CAIN. 

I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what art thou? 

LUCIFER. 

One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

CAIN. 

Ah! 
Thou look'st almost a god ; and— 

LUCIFER. 

I am none ; 
And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him reign ! 

CAIN. 
Who? 

LUCIFER. 

Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

CAIN. 

And heaven's, 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing; and so my father saith. 

LUCIFER. 

They say — what they must sing and say, on pain 
Of being that which I am— and thou art— 
Of spirits and of men. 

CAIN. 

And what is that? 

LUCIFER. 

Souls who dare use their immortality — 

Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 

His everlasting face, and tell him, that 

His evil is not good ! If he has made, 

As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 

But, if he made us — he cannot unmake: 

We are immortal! — nay, he'd have us so, 



36.' 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That he may torture: — let him! He is great — 

But, in his greatness, is no happier than 

We in our conflict! Goodness would not make 

Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But let him 

Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 

Creating worlds, to make eternity 

Less hurthensome to his immense existence 

And unparticipated solitude! 

Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 

Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant! 

Could he but crush himself, 't were the best boon 

He ever granted : but let him reign on, 

And multiply himself in misery! 

Spirits and men, at least we sympathise; 

And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 

Innumerable, more endurable, 

By the unbounded sympathy of all — 

With all ! But He ! so wretched in his height, 

So restless in his wretchedness, must still 

Create, and re-create 

CAIN. 

Thou speak'st to me of things which long have swum 

In visions through my thought: I never could 

Reconcile what 1 saw with what I heard. 

My father and my mother talk to me 

Of serpents, and of fruits and trees: I see 

The gates of what they call their Paradise 

Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 

Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 

Of daily toil, and constant thought: I look 

Around a world where I seem nothing, with 

Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 

Could master all things : — but I thought alone 

This misery was mine. — My father is 

Tamed down; my mother has forgot the mind 

Which made her thirst for knowledge, at the risk 

Of an eternal curse; my brother is 

A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 

The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 

The earth yield nothing to us without sweat; 

My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 

Than the bird's matins ; and my Adah, my 

Own and beloved, she too understands not 

The mind which overwhelms me : never till 

Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 

'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 

LUCIFER. 

And hadst thou not been fit by thine own soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am: a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 

CAIN. 

Ah! didst thou tempt my mother? 

LUCIFER. 

I tempt none, 
Save with the truth: was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful? Did / bid her pluck them not? 
Did I plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence? I would have made ye 
Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth so thrust ye 
Because « ye should not eat the fruits of life, 
And become gods as we.» Were those his words? 

CAIN. 

They were, as I have heard from those who heard them 



In thunder. 

LUCIFER. 

Then who was the demon? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge? 

CAIN. 

Would they had snatch' d both 
The fruits, or neither ! 

LUCIFER. 

One is yours already, 
The other may be still. 

CAIN. 

How so? 

LUCIFER. 

By being 
Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

CAIN. 

But didst thou tempt my parents? 

LUCIFER. 

I? 
Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 

CAIN. 

They say the serpent was a spirit. 

LUCIFER. 

Who 
Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
No more; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die? 

CAIN. 

But the thing had a demon? 

LUCIFER. 

He but woke one 
Tn those he spoke to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent: ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him who made things but to bend 
Before his sullen sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
Space— —but I speak to thee of what thou know'st not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

CAIN. 

But thou canst not 
Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 



CAIN. 365 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


And heart to look on ? 


To be resolved into the earth. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Be it proved. 


But shall I know it ? 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Dar'st thou to look on Death? 


As I know not death, 


CAIN. 


I cannot answer. 


He has not yet 


CAIN. 


Been seen. 


Were I quiet earth, 


LUCIFER. 


That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 


But must be undergone. 


Aught else but dust! 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


My father 


That is a grov'ling wish, 


Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 


Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 


Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 


CAIN. 


To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 


But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 


And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 


The life-tree? 


And speaks not. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


He was hinder'd. 


And thou? 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Deadly error ! 


Thoughts unspeakable 


Not to snatch first that fruit : but ere he pluck'd 


Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 


The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 


Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, 


Alas ! f scarcely now know what it is, 


Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? 


And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 


I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 


LUCIFER. 


In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 


And I, who know all things, fear nothing : see 


LUCIFER. 


What is true knowledge. 


It has no shape, but will absorb all things 


CAIN. 


That bear the form of earth-born being. 


Wilt thou teach me all ? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


Ah! 


Ay, upon one condition. 


T thought it was a being : who could do 


CAIN. 


Such evil things to beings save a being? 


Name it. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Ask the Destroyer. 


That 


CAIN. 


Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 


Who? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 


The Maker— call him 


LUCIFER. 


Which name thou wilt; he makes but to destroy. 


No. 

CAIN. 


CAIN. 

I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard 


His equal ? 

LUCIFER. 


Of death : although I know not what it is, 


Yet it seems horrible. 1 have look'd out 


No ; — I have nought in common with him ! 


In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And, when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 
By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I watch'd for what I thought his coming; for 


Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 


Aught save a sharer or a servant of 


His power. I dwell apart; but I am great : — 


Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

CAIN. 

I never 


With fear rose longing in my heart to know 


What 't was which shook us all— but nothing came. 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 


As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 


Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die? 


That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
Why should I bow to thee ? 

LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Hast thou ne'er bow'd 


Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and thee. 


To him ? 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


I 'm glad of that; I would not have them die, 


Have I not said it ? — need I say it? 


They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 


Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that? 


I feel, it is a dreadful thing; but what, 


LUCIFER. 


I cannot compass : 't is denounced against us, 


He who bows not to him has bow'd to me ! 


Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 


CAIN. 


What ill ? 


But I will bend to neither. 



366 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LUCIFER. 


To be our guests — will he? 


Ne'er the less, 


cain (to Lucifer). 


Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 


Wilt thou ? 


Him makes thee mine the same. 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


I ask 


And what is that? 


Thee to be mine. 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


Thou 'It know here — and hereafter. 


I must away with him. 


CAIN. 


ADAH. 


Let me but 


And leave us ? 


Be taught the mystery of my being. 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


Ay. 


Follow 


ADAH. 


Where I will lead thee. 


And me 1 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


But I must retire 


Beloved Adah ! 


To till the earth — for I had promised 


ADAH. 


LUCIFER. 


Let me go with thee. 


What? 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


No, she must not. 


To cull some first fruits. 


ADAH. 


LUCIFER. 


Who 


Why? 


Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


To offer up 


He is a god. 


With Abel on an altar. 


ADAH. 


LUCIFER. 


How know'st thou ? 


Saidst thou not 


CAIN. 


Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee? 


He speaks like 


CAIN. 


A god. 


Yes— 


ADAH. 


But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ,- 


So did the serpent, and it lied. 


The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Thou errest, Adah! — was not the tree that 


Why dost thou hesitate ? 


Of knowledge? 


CAIN. 


ADAH. 


She is my sister, 


Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 


Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 


LUCIFER. 


She wrung from me, with tears, this promise, and 


And yet that grief is knowledge — so he lied not : 


Bather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 


And if he did betray you, 't was with truth; 


Bear all — and worship aught. 


And truth in its own essence cannot be 


LUCIFER. 


But good. 


Then follow me ! 


ADAH. 


CAIN. 


But all we know of it has gather' d 


I will. 


Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 


Enter Adah. 


And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness; 


Remorse of that which was, and hope of that 


ADAH. 


Which cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 


My brother, I have come for thee; 


Bear with wliat we have borne, and love me — 1 


It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 


Love thee. 


Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 


LUCIFER. 


This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 


More than thy mother and thy sire? 


Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 


ADAH. 


Come away. 


I do. Is that a sin, too ? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


See'st thou not? 


No, not yet; 


ADAH. 


It one day will be in your children. 


I see an angel ; 


ADAH. 


We have seen many : will he share our hour 


What! 


Of rest? — he is welcome. 


Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


But he is not like 


Not as thou lovest Cain! 


The angels we have seen. 


ADAH. 


ADAH. 


Oh, my God ! 


Are there, then, others ? 


Shall they not love and bring forth things that love 


But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 


Out of their love? have they not drawn their milk 



CAIN. 



36 7 



Out of this bosom? was not he, their father, 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ! did we not love each other, and, 
In multiplying our being, multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them! — And, as I love thee, my Cain! go not 
Forth with this spirit; he is not of ours. 

LUCIFER. 

The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

ADAH. 

What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

LUCIFER. 

Higher things than ye are slaves ; and higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

ADAH. 

Omnipotence 
Must be all goodness. 

LUCIFER. 

Was it so in Eden? 

ADAH. 

Fiend! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

LUCIFER. 

As true. 
Ask Eve, your mother; bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil? 

ADAH. 

Oh, my mother! thou 
Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself; thou at the least hast past 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits; 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts— as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me: I cannot abhor him; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear, 
And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
Nearer and nearer : Cain — Cain — save me from him ! 

CAIN. 

What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 

ADAH. 

He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs; he looks not 
Like them. 

CAIN. 

But there are spirits loftier still — 



The archangels. 

LUCIFER. 

And still loftier than the archangels. 

ADAH. 

Ay — but not blessed. 

LUCIFER. 

If the blessedness 
Consists in slavery — no. 

ADAH. 

I have heard it said, 
The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 

LUCIFER. 

And if the higher knowledge quenches love, 
What must he be you cannot love when known? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance: 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Chuse betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other choice : your sire hath chosen already ; 
His worship is but fear. 

ADAH. 

Oh, Cain ■ chuse love. 

CAIN. 

For thee, my Adah, I chuse not — it was 
Born with me — but I love nought else. 

ADAH. 

Our parents ? 

CAIN. 

Did they love us when they snatch'd from the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise? 

ADAH. 

We were not born then — and if we had been, 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain? 

CAIN. 

My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister! 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 

Shall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour! They pluck'd die tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 

Begot me — tliee — and all the few that are, 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be. 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages! — And / must be sire of such things ! 

Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 

All we love in our children and each other, 

But lead them and ourselves through many years 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of kuowledge 

Hath not fulfill'd its promise: — if they sinn'd, 

At least they ought to have known all things that are 

Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 

What do they know? — that they are miserable. 

What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 

ADAH. 

I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy — 

CAIN. 

Be thou happy then alone — 



368 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


I will have nought to do with happiness, 


ADAH. 


Which humhles me and mine. 


Yes — in his works. 


ADAH. 


LUCIFER. 


Alone I could not, 


But in his being ! 


Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 


ADAH. 


I think I could be so, despite of death, 


No- 


Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 


Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 


It seem an awful shadow — if I may 


Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 


Judge from what I have heard. 


And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 


LUCIFER. 


In seeming: as the silent sunny noon, 


And thou couldst not 


All light, they look upon us; but thou seem'st 


Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 


Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 


ADAH. 


Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 


Alone ! Oh, my God ! 


Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 


Who could be happy and alone, or good? 


With things that look as if they would be suns; 


To me my solitude seems sin ; uuless 


So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 


When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 


Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 


His brother, and our children, and our parents. 


They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 


LUCIFER. 


Thou seem'st unhappy ; do not make us so, 


Yet thy God is alone; and is he happy, 


And I will weep for thee. 


Lonely and good? 


LUCIFER. 


ADAH. 


Alas ! those tears ! 


He is not so; he hath 


Gouldst thou but know what oceans will be shed— 


The angels and the mortals to make happy, 


ADAH. 


And thus becomes so in diffusing joy : 


By me? 


What else can joy be but the spreading joy ? 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


By all. 


Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 


ADAH. 


Or of his first-born son: ask your own heart; 


What all? 


It is not tranquil. 


LUCIFER. 


ADAH. 


The million millions— 


Alas ! no ; and you — 


The myriad myriads— the all-peopled earth — 


Are you of heaven? 


The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 


LUCIFER. 


Of which thy bosom is the germ. 


If I am not, inquire 


ADAH. 


The cause of this all-spreading happiness 


Oh Cain! 


(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 


This spirit curseth us. 


Maker of life and living things; it is 


CAIN. 


His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 


Let him say on; 


And some of us resist, and both in vain, 


Him will I follow. 


His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial, 


ADAH. 


Since better may not be without: there is 


Whither? 


A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 


LUCIFER. 


Tp right, as in the dim blue air the eye 


To a place 


Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 


Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour; 


The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 


But in that hour see things of many days. 


ADAH. 


ADAH. 


It is a beautiful star; I love it for 


How can that be? 


Its beauty. 

LUCIFER. 

And why not adore? 


LUCIFER. 


Did not your Maker make 


Out of old worlds this new one in few days? 


And cannot 1, who aided in this work, 


ADAH. 

Our father 
Adores the Invisible only. 


Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy'd in few ? 

CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


Lead on. 


But the symbols 


ADAH. 


Of the Invisible are the loveliest 


Will he 


Of what is visible; and yon bright star 


In sooth return within an hour? 


Is leader of the host of heaven. 


LUCIFER. 


ADAH. 


He shall. 


Our father 


With us acts are exempt from time, and we 


Saith that he has beheld the God himself 


Can crowd eternity into an hour, 


Who made him and our mother. 


Or stretch an hour into eternity : 


LUCIFER. 


We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 


Hast thou seen him? 


But that' s a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 







CAIN. 



36 9 



Will hs return ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay, woman ! he alone 
Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One) — shall come back to thee 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this: at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

ADAB. 

Where dwellest thou ? 

LUCIFER. 

Throughout all space. Where should I dwell? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I ; all things are 
Divided with me; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both— 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said, 
Gould I stand here? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

ADAH. 

So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

LUCIFER. 

Cain! thou hast heard. 
If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst: nor ask thee to partake of fruit 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

CAIN. 

Spirit, I have said it. [Exeunt Lucifer and Gain 

Adah (follows, exclaiming). 

Cain! my brother! Cain! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Abyss of Space. 

CAIN. 

I tread on air, and sink not; yet I fear 
To sink. 

LUCIFER. 

Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

CAIN. 

Can I do so without impiety? 

LUCIFER. 

Believe — and sink not! doubt — and perish ! thus 

Would run the edict of the other God, 

Who names me demon to his angels; they 

Echo the sound to miserable things, 

Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses, 

Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 

Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 

In their abasement. I will have none such : 

Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 

The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 

Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life, 

With torture of my dooming. There will come 

An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 

A man shall say to a man, « Believe in me, 

And walk the waters;" and the man shall walk 



The billows and be safe. / will not say 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou darest not deny, the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

CAIN. 

Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth? 

LUCIFER. 

Dost thou not recognize 
The dust which form'd your father? 

CAIN. 

Can it be ? 
Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
Which looks like that -which lit our earthly night? 
Is this our Paradise? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them? 

LUCIFER. 

Point me out the site 
Of Paradise. 

CAIN. 

How should I? As we move 
Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when 1 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

LUCIFER. 

And if there should be 
Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 
What wouldst thou think? 

CAIN. 

I should be proud of thought 
Which knew such things. 

LUCIFER. 

But if that high thought were 
Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most euervating and filthy cheat, 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be » 

As frail, and few so happy 

CAIN. 

Spirit! I 
Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing, 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge till now. But, spirit, if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 

47 



370 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks, is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou canst not 
All die— there is what must survive. 

CAIN. 

The Other 
Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

LUCIFER. 

/ am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am? 

CAIN. 

I know not what thou art: / see thy power, 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

LUCIFER. 

What are they, which dwell 
So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay? 

CAIN. 

And what art thou, who dwellest 
So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality, and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful? 

LUCIFER. 

I seem that which I am; 
And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal? 

CAIN. 

Thou hast said, I must be 
Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but, since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

CAIN. 

How? 

LUCIFER. 

By suffering. 

CAIN. 

And must torture be immortal? 

LUCIFER. 

We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ! 
Is it not glorious? 

CAIN. 

Oh, thou beautiful 
And unimaginable ether! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still-increasing lights! what are ye? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? 
Is your course measured for ye? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion, at which my soul aches to think, 
Intoxicated with eternity? 
Oh God! Oh Gods! or whatsoe'er ye are! 
How beautiful ye are! how beautiful 



Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 

They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die 

(If that they die), or know ye in your might 

And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 

Unworthy what I see, though my dust is : 

Spirit! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

LUCIFER. 

Art thou not nearer? look back to thine earth! 

CAIN. 

Where is it? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

LUCIFER. 

Look there ! 

CAIN. 

I cannot see it. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet it sparkles still. 

CAIN. 

What, yonder? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea. 

CAIN. 

And wilt thou tell me so ? 
Why, I have seen the fire-tlies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling, — what dost think of them? 

CAIN. 

That they are beautiful in their own sphere; 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

LUCIFER. 

But by whom or what? 

CAIN. 

Show me. 

LUCIFER. 

Darest thou behold? 

CAIN. 

How know I what 
I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

LUCIFER. 

On, then, with me. 
Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal? 

CAIN. 

Why, what are things? 

LUCIFER. 

Both partly: but what doth 
Sit next thy heart? 

CAIN. 

The things I see. 

LUCIFER. 

But what 
Sate nearest it? 

CAIN. 

The things I have not seen, 
Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

LUCIFER. 

What if I show to thee things which have died, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die? 






CAIN. 



3? 



CAIN. 

Do so. 

LUCIFER. 

Away, then! on our mighty wiDgs. 

CAIN. 

Oh ! how we cleave the hlue ! The stars fade from us ! 
The earth? where is my earth? let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

LUCIFER. 

T is now heyond thee, 
Less in the universe than thou in it : 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust ; 
'T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 

CAIN. 

Where dost thou lead me? 

LUCIFER. 

To what was hefore thee ! 
The phantasm of the world; of which thy world 
Is hut the wreck. 

CAIN. 

What! is it not then new? 

LUCIFER. 

No more than life is : and that was ere thou 
Or /were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise; for moments only and the space 



Have been and must be all uncha 



ngea 



hie. 



But changes make not death, except to clay ; 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay, and such thou shah behold. 

CAIN. 

Clay, spirit ! What thou wilt, I can survey. 

LUCIFER. 

Away, then ! 

CAIN. 

But the lights fade from me fast, 
And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

LUCIFER. 

And such they are. 

CAIN. 

And Edens in them ? 

LUCIFER. 

It may be. 

CAIN. 

And men? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea, or things higher. 

CAIN. 

Ay! and serpents too! 

LUCIFER. 

Wouldst thou have men without them? must no reptile 
Breathe, save the erect ones? 

CAIN. 

How the lights recede ! 
Where fly we ? 

LUCIFER. 

To the world of phantoms, which 
Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

CAIN. 

But it grows dark, and dark — the stars are gone! 



LUCIFER. 

And yet thou seest. 

CAIN. 

'T is a fearful light! 
No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight ; yet I see 
Huge dusky masses, but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atsmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took 
Like them the features of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

LUCIFER. 

But distinct. 
Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things? 

CAIN. 

I seek it not ; but as I know there are 

Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 

And all that we inherit, liable 

To such, I would behold at once what I 

Must one day see perforce. 

LUCIFER. 

Behold ! 

CAIN. 

'T is darkness. 

LUCIFER. 

And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

CAIN. 

Enormous vapours roll 
Apart — what's this? 

LUCIFER. 

Enter ! 

CAIN. 

Can I return ? 

LUCIFER. 

Return ! be sure : how else should death be peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

CAIN. 

The clouds still open wide 
And wider, and make widening circles round us, 

LUCIFER. 

Advance ! 

CAIN. 

And thou ! 

LUCIFER. 

Fear not— without me thou 
Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 

[They disappear through the clouds. 



SCENE II. 
Hades. 
Enter Lucifer and Cain, 
cain. 
How silent and how vast are these dim worlds! 
For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
So thickly in the upper air, that I 



3 7 : 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 

Of some all unimaginable heaven 

Than things to be inhabited themselves, 

But that on drawing near them I beheld 

Their swelling into palpable immensity 

Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 

Rather than life itself. But here, all is 

So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 

It speaks of a day past. 

LUCIFER. 

It is the realm 
Of death. — Wouldst have it present? 

CAIN. 

Till I know- 
That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing — 
Oh God! I dare not think on 't! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death! 
Or the dull mass of life, that being life 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent! 

LUCIFER. 

Dost thou curse thy father? 

CAIN. 

Cursed he not me in giving me my birth? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

LUCIFER. 

Thou say'st well : 
The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother? 

CAIN. 

Let them share it 
With me, their sire and brother! What else is 
Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye? 
Live ye, or have ye lived? 

LUCIFER. 

Somewhat of both. 

CAIN. 

Then what is death? 

LUCIFER. 

What? Hath not He who made ye 
Said 't is another life ? 

CAIN. 

Till now He hath 
Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

LUCIFER. 

Perhaps 
lie one day will unfold that further secret. 

CAIN. 

Happy the day ! 

LUCIFER. 

Yes, happy! when unfolded 
Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this ouly ! 

CAIN. 

What are these mighty phantoms which I see 
Floating around me ?— they wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 



Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's; 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something which, 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet they lived. 

CAIN. 

Where ? 

LUCIFER. 

Where 
Thou livest. 

CAIN. 

When ? 

LUCIFER. 

On what thou callest earth 
They did inhabit. 

CAIN. 

Adam is the first. 

LUCIFER. 

Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

CAIN. 

Aud what are they? 

LUCIFER. 

That which 
Thou shalt be. 

CAIN. 

But what were they ? 

LUCIFER. 

Living, high, 
Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-Lhousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son; — and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

CAIN. 

Ah me! and did they perish? 

LUCIFER. 

Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from thine. 

CAIN. 

But was mine theirs? 

LUCIFER. 

It was. 

CAIN. 

But not as now : 
It is too little and loo lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

LUCIFER. 

True, it was more glorious 

CAIN. 

Aud wherefore did it fall? 

i 






GAIN. 



3 7 3 



LUCIFER. 

Ask Him who fells. 

CAIN. 

But how? 

LUCIFER. 

By a most crushing and inexorable 
Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

CAIN. 

'T is awful ! 

LUCIFER. 

And true. Behold these phantoms! they were once 
Material as thou art. 

CAIN. 

And must I be 
Like them ? 

LUCIFER. 

Let He who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings, and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender' d out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scareely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were : 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — I '11 waft thee there in safety. 

CAIN. 

No : I '11 stay here. 

LUCIFER. 

How long? 

CAIN. 

For ever! Since 
I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

LUCIFER. 

It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 

A vision that which is reality. 

To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 

Must pass through what the things thou see'st havi 

pass'd — 
The gates of death. 

CAIN. 

By what gate have we enter'd 
Even now ? 

LUCIFER. 

By mine! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

CAIN. 

And these, too, can they ne'er repass 
To earth again? 



LUCIFER. 

Their earth is gone for ever — 
So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely-harden'd surface — 't was — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it was! 

CAIN. 

And is. 
It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiliug, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

LUCIFER. 

What thy world is thou see'st, 
But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

CAIN. 

And those enormous creatures, 
Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and terror; taller than 
The cherub- guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they? 

LUCIFER. 

That which 
The mammoth is in thy world ■ — but these lie 
ily myriads underneath its surface. 

CAIN. 

But 

None on it? 

LUCIFER. 

No : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
T would be destroy'd so early. 

CAIN. 

But why war ? 

LUCIFER. 

You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with all things 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness; these were the fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

CAIN. 

But animals — 
Did they too eat of it, that they must die? 

LUCIFER. 

Your Maker told ye, they were made for you. 
As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

CAIN. 

Alas ! the hopeless wretches! 
They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons; 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still : but what knows man? 



374 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


It may be, death leads to the highest knowledge; 


Many of the same kind (at least so call'd), 


And being of all things the sole tiling certain, 


But never that precisely which persuaded 


At least leads to the surest science -.'therefore 


The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 


The tree was true, though deadly. 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


Your father saw him not ? 


These dim realms! 


CAIN. 


I see them, but I know them not. 


No ; 't was my mother 


LUCIFER. 


Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 


Because 


LUCIFER. 


Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 


Good man! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' wives 


Comprehend spirit wholly — but 't is something 


Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange, 


To know there are such realms. 


Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


We knew already 


Thy precept comes too late : there is no more 


That there was death. 


For serpents to tempt woman to. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


But not what was beyond it. 


But there 


CAIN. 


Are some things still which womau may tempt man to, 


Nor know I now. 


And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it! 


LUCIFER. 


My counsel is a kind one : for 't is even 


Thou know'st that there is 


Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 


A state, and many states beyond thine own — 


'T will not be follow'd, so there 's little lost. 


And this thou knewest not this morn. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


I understand not this. 


But all 


LUCIFER. 


Seems dim and shadowy. 


The happier thou ! — 


LUCIFER. 


The world and thou are still too young ! Thou thinkest 


Be content; it will 


Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 


Seem clearer to thine immortality. 


Not so? 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


And yon immeasurable liquid space 


For crime I know not; but for pain, 


Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 


I have felt much. 


Which looks like water, and which I should deem 


LUCIFER. 


The river which flows out of Paradise 


First-born of the first man ! 


Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 


Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 


And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 


Of sorrow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden, 


What is it? 


In all its innocence, compared to what 


LUCIFER. 


Thou shortly mayst be; and that state again, 


There is still some such on earth, 


In its redoubled wretchedness, a paradise 


Although inferior, and thy children shall 


To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 


Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 


In generations like to dust (which they 


CAIN. 


In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 


T is like another world; a liquid sun — 


Now let us back to earth ! 


And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 


CAIN. 


Its shining surface? 


And wherefore didst thou 


LUCIFER. 


Lead me here only to inform me this? 


Are its habitants, 


LUCIFER. 


The past leviathans. 


Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 


CAIN. 

And yon immense 


Yes : as being 


Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 


The road to happiness. 


Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 


LUCIFER. 

If truth be so, 


Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 


Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on— 


Thou hast it. 


Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 


CAIN. 


The tree in Eden ? 


Then my father's God did well 


LUCIFER. 


When he prohibited the fatal tree. 


Eve, thy mother, best 
Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 


LUCIFER. 

But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 


CAIN. 


From evil; it must still roll on the same, 


This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 


A part of all things. 


Had more of beauty. 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


Not of all things. No : 


Hast thou ne'er heheld him ? 


I '11 not believe it — for I thirst for good. 







CAIN. 3y5 


LUCIFER. 


This question of my father; and he said, 


And who and what doth not? Who covets evil 


Because this evil only was the path 


For its own bitter sake 7 — None — nothing ! 't is 


To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 


The leaven of all life and lifelessness. 


Its deadly opposite! I lately saw 


CAIN. 


A lamb stung by a reptile: the poor suckling 


Within those glorious orbs which we behold, 


Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 


Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable, 


And piteous bleating of its restless dam: 


Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 


My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 


111 cannot come; they are too beautiful. 


The wound : and by degrees the helpless wretch 


LUCIFER. 


Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 


Thou hast seen them from afar. 


The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 


CAIN. 


Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 


And what of that ? 


Behold, my son! said Adam, how from evil 


Distance can but diminish glory — they, 


Springs good. 


When nearer, must be more ineffable. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


What didst thou answer? 


Approach the things of earth most beautiful, 


CAIN. 


And judge their beauty near. 


Nothing: for 


CAIN. 


He is my father: but I thought, that 't were 


I have done this — 


A better portion for the animal 


The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 


Never to have been stung at all, than to 


LUCIFER. 


Purchase renewal of its little life 


Then there must be delusion. — What is that, 


With agonies unutterable, though 


Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 


Dispell'd by antidotes. 


More beautiful than beauteous things remote? 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


But as thou saidst, 


My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 


Of all beloved things thou lovest her 


The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 


Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 


Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 


Unto thy children 


The hues of twilight — the suu's gorgeous coming — 


CAIN. 


His setting indescribable, which fills 


Most assuredly: 


My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 


What should I be without her? 


Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 


LUCIFER. 


Along that western paradise of clouds — 


What am I? 


The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice — 


CAIN. 


The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 


Dost thou love nothing? 


And mingles with the song of cherubim, 


LUCIFER. 


As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 


What does thy God love? 


All these are nothing to my eyes and heart, 


CAIN. 


Like Adah's face: I turn from earth and heaven 


All things, my father says; but I confess 


To gaze on it. 


I see it not in their allotment here. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


*T is frail as fair mortality, 


And therefore thou canst not see if / love 


In the first dawn and bloom of young creation 


Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 


And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 


To which particular things must melt like snow. 


Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Snows! what are they? 


You think so, being not her brother. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Be happier in not knowing 


Mortal! 


What thy remoter offspring must encounter; 


My brotherhood 's with those who have no children. 

CAIN. 

Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 


But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter! 


CAIN. 

But dost thou not love something like thyself! 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


It may be that thine own shall be for me. 


And dost thou love thyself? 


But if thou dost possess a beautiful 


CAIN. 


Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 


Yes, but love more 


Why art thou wretched? 


What makes my feelings more endurable, 


CAIN. 


And is more than myself, because I love it. 


Why do I exist ? 


LUCIFER. 


Why art thou wretched? why are all things so? 


Thou lovest it, because 't is beautiful, 


Even He who made us must be as the maker 


As was the apple in thy mother's eye; 


Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 


And when it ceases to be so, thy love 


Can surely never be the task of joy, 


Will cease, like any other appetite. 


And yet my sire says lie 's omnipotent; 


CAIN. 


Then why is evil — He being good? I ask'd 


Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be ? 



376 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


LUCIFER. 


I have thought, why recal a thought that — (he pauses, 


With time. 


as agitated) — Spirit! 


CAIN. 


Here are we in thy world ; speak not of mine. 


But time has past, and hitherto 


Thou 'st shown me wonders ; thou hast shown me those 


Even Adam and my mother both are fair: 


Mighty Pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 


Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 


Of which ours is the wreck: thou hast pointed out 


But very fair. 


Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 


LUCIFER. 


Is the dim and remote companion, in 


All that must pass away 


Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 


In them and her. 


Of that existence with the dreaded name 


CAIN. 


Which my sire brought us — death ; thou hast shown me 


I 'm sorry for it ; but 


much — 


Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 


Rut not all: show me where Jehovah dwells, 


And -when her beauty disappears, methinks 


In his especial Paradise — or thine: 


He who creates all beauty will lose more 


Where is it? 


Than me in seeing perish such a work. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Here, and o'er all space. 


I pity thee, who lovest what must perish. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


But ye 


And I thee who lovest nothing. 


Have some allotted dwelling — as all things; 


LUCIFER. 


day has its earth, and other worlds their tenants; 


And thy brother — 


All temporary breathing creatures their 


Sits he not near thy heart ? 


Peculiar element ; and things which have 


CAIN. 


Long ceased to breathe our breath have theirs, thou 


Why should he not? 

LUCIFER. 


say's t ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 


Thy father loves him well — so does thy God. 


Ye do not dwell together? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


And so do I. 


No, we reign 


LUCIFER. 


Together, but our dwellings are asunder. 


'T is well and meekly done. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Would there were only one of ye ? perchance 


Meekly ! 


An unity of purpose might make union 


LUCIFER. 


In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 


He is the second born of flesh, 


How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 


And is his mother's favourite. 


To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 


CAIN. 


Your essence, and your nature, and your glory? 


Let him keep 


LUCIFER. 


Her favour, since the serpent was the first 


Art thou not Abel's brother? 


To win it. 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


We are brethren, 


And his father's ? 


And so we shall remain; but, were it not so, 


CAIN. 


Is spirit like to flesh? can it fall out ? 


What is that 


Infinity with immortality? 


To me ! should I not love that which all love? 


Jarring and turning space to misery — 


LUCIFER. 


For what ? 


And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 


LUCIFER. 


And beauteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 


To reign. 


He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Did ye not tell me that 


I 


Ye are both eternal ? 


Ne'er saw Him, and I know not if He smiles. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Yea. 


But you have seen his angels. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 

Rarely. 

LUCIFER. 

But 


And what I have seen, 


Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay. 

CAIN. 

And cannot ye both reign then? — is there not 


Sufficiently to see they love your brother; 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

CAIN. 


So be they! wherefore speak to me of this ? 

LUCIFER. 


Enough ? — Why should ye differ? 

LUCIFER. 


Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 


We both reign. 


CAIN. 

And if 


CAIN. 

But one of you makes evil. 



CAIN. 



3 77 



LUCIFER. 

Which? 

CAIX. 

Thou! for 
If thou canst do mau good, why dost thou not? 

LUCIFER. 

Aud why not he 'who made? / made ye not; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

CAIN. 

Then leave us 
His creatures, as thou say's* we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

LUCIFER. 

I could show thee 
Both; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

CAIN. 

And why not now? 

LUCIFER. 

Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to gather 

The little I ha\e shown thee into calm 

And clear thought; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 

To the great double mysteries! the tivo Principles! 

And gaze upon them on their secret thrones! 

Dust! limit thy ambition, for to see 

Either of these, would be for thee to perish '. 

CAIX. 

And let me perish, so I see them! 

LUCIFER. 

There 
The son of her who snatch' d the apple spake! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them; 
That sight is for the other state. 

CAIX. 

Of death: 

LUCIFER. 

That is the prelude. 

CAIX. 

Then I dread it less, 
Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

LUCITER. 

And now I will convey thee to thy world, 

Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 

Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

CAIX. 

-And to what end have I beheld these things 
"Which thou hast shown me? 

LUCIFER. 

Didst thou not require 
Knowledge? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself? 

CAIX. 

Alas ! I seem 
Nothing. 

LUCJFER. 

Aud this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness; 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'T will spare them many tortures. 

CA I N . 

Haughty spirit ! 
Thou speak'st it proudly; but thyself, though proud- 
Hast a superior. 

LUCIFER. 

No ! By lteaven, which He 
Holds, and the abyss, snd the immensity 



Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No ! 

I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 

Homage lie has from all — but none from me : 

I battle it against him, as I battled 

In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 

And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 

And the interminable realms of space, 

And the infinity of endless ages. 

All, all, will I uispute ! And world by world, 

And star by star, and universe by universe, 

Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 

Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 

Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'tl ' 

And what can quench our immortality, 

Or mutual and irrevocable hate? 

He as a conqueror will call the conquer' d 

Evil; but what will be the good He gives? 

Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 

The only evil ones. Aud you, ye new 

And scarce-born mortals, what have been his gift? 

To you already in your little world? 

CAIX. 

But few; and some of those but bitter. 

LUCIFER. 

Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 

Of his celestial boons to ye aud yours. 

Evil and good are things in their own essence, 

And not made good or evil by the giver; 

But if he gives you good — so call him; if 

Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 

Till ye know better its true fount; and judge 

Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 

Of your existence, such as it must be. 

One good gift has the fatal apple given — 

Your reason: — let it not be oversway'd 

By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 

Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 

Think and endure, — and form an inner world 

In your own bosom — where the outward fails : 

So shall you nearer be the spiritual 

Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

[They disappear. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 

Enter Caix and Adah. 

ADAH. 

Hush! tread softly, Cain. 

CAIX. 

I will; but wherefore ? 

ADAH. 

Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

CAIX. 

Cypress ! 't is 
A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows; wherefore didst thou chuse it 
For our child's canopy ? 

ADAH. 

Because its branches 



3 7 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

CAIN. 

Ay, the last — 
And longest; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to Vie child. 
How lovely he appears! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 

ADAH. 

And his lips, too, 
How beautifully parted! No, you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over, 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'T is closed. 

CAIN. 

You have said well; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young: sleep on, and smile! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them : 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy! 'T is but a dream; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy! 

ADAH. 

Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past; 
Why wilt thou always mourn for paradise? 
Can we not make another? 

CAIN. 

Where ? 

ADAH. 

Here, or 
Where'er thou wilt: where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth? 

CAIN. 

Yes, death, too, is amongst the debts we owe her. 

ADAH. 

Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence, 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil: still I thank him, 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

CAIN. 

So soon! 

ADAH. 

'T is scarcely 
Two hours since ye departed: two long hours 



To tne, but only hours upon the sun. 

CAIN. 

And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light; and worlds he never lit: methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

ADAH. 

Hardly hours. 

CAIN. 

The mind then hath capacity of time, 

And measures it by that which it beholds. 

Pleasing or painful, little or almighty. 

I had beheld the immemorial works 

Of endless beings; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 

And, gazing on eternity, methought 

I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 

From its immensity; but now I feel 

My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 

That I was nothing! 

ADAH. 

Wherefore said he so ? 
Jehovah said not that. 

CAIN. 

No : he contents him 
With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And, after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what? 

ADAH. 

Thou know'st — 
Even for our parents' error. 

CAIN. 

What is that 
To us? they sinn'd, then let them die! 

ADAH. 

Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
j Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 

CAIN. 

Why, so say I — provided that one victim 

Might satiate the insatiable of life, 

And that our little rosy sleeper there 

Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 

Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

ADAH. 

How know we that some such atonement one day 
May not redeem our race? 

CAIN. 

By sacrificing 
The harmless for the guilty? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge? 

ADAH. 

Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain ; thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

CAIN. 

Then leave me ! 

ADAH. 

Never, 
Though thy God left thee. 

CAIN. 

Say, what have we here? 



GAIN. 



79 



Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

CAIN. 

And how knew he, that / would be so ready 
With the burnt-offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator? 

ADAH. 

Surely, 't is well done. 

CAIN. 

One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 

ADAH. 

The fruits of the earth — the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits j 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

CAIN. 

I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun 

According to the curse: — must I do more ? 

For what should I be gentle? for a war 

With all the elements ere they will yield 

The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 

For being dust, and groveling in the dust, 

Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 

For nothing shall I be a hypocrite, 

And seem well pleased with pain ? For what should I 

Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 

Expiate with what we all have undergone, 

Aud to be more than expiated by 

The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 

Little deems our young blooming sleeper, tuere, 

The germs of an eternal misery 

To myriads is within him ! Better 't were 

I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 

The rocks, than let him live to 

ADAH. 

Oh, my God! 
Touch not the child— my child! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

CAIN. 

Fear not! for all the stars, and all the power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 

ADAH. 

Then, why so awful in thy speech? 

CAIN. 

I said, 
T were better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'T were better that he never had been born. 

ADAH. 

Oh, do not say so! Where were then the joys, 

The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 

And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 

[She goes to the child. 
Oh Cain ! look on him; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike ; is 't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 



When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
Aud love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look! how be laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

CAIN. 

Bless thee, boy ! 
If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

ADAH. 

It shall. 
Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile subtlety. 

CAIN. 

Of that I doubt; 
But bless him ne'er the less. 

ADAH. 

Our brother comes. 

CAIN. 

Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 

ABEL. 

Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 
The peace of God be on thee ! 

CAIN. 

Abel ! hail ! 

ABEL. 

Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering, 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father? 

CAIN. 

No. 

ABEL. 

Why then commune with him? he may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

CAIN. 
And friend to man. 
Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 

ABEL. 

Term him ! your words are strange to-day, my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for a while — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

ADAH. 

Farewell, ray Cain ; 
But first embrace thy sou. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recal thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

[Exit Adah, with her child. 

ABEL. 

Where hast thou been? 

CAIN. 

I know not. 

ABEL. 

Nor what thou hast seen? 

CAIN. 

The dead, 
The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 



38o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse: leave me, Abel. 

ABEL. 

Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light — 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

CAIN. 

It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

ABEL. 

Not till we have pray d and sacrificed together. 

CAIN. 

Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

ABEL. 

Both well, I hope. 

CAIN. 

But thee the better. I care not for that; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I* am : 
Revere him, then— but let it be alone— 
At least without me. 

ABEL. 

Brother, I should ill 
Deserve the name of coir great father's son, 
If as my elder I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 't is thy place. 

CAIN. 

But I have ne'er 
Asserted it. 

ABEL. 

The more my grief; I pray thee 
To do so now ; thy soul seems labouring in 
Some strong delusion; it will calm thee. 

CAIN. 

No; 
Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

ABEL. 

Neither ; we must perform our task together. 
Spurn me not. 

CAIN. 

If it must be so well, then, 

What shall I do ? 

ABEL. 

Cliuse one of those two altars. 

CAI.\. 

Gbuse for me: they to me are so much turf 
Ind stone. 

ABEL. 

Chuse thou ! 

CAIN. 

I have chosen. 

ABEL. 

'T is the highest, 
And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

CAIN. 

Where are thine 7 

ABEL. 

Behold them here— 
The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 



A shepherds humble offering. 

CAIN. 

I have no flocks : 
I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit: 

[lie gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 

[They dress their altars, and kindle aflame 
upon them. 

ABEL. 

My brother, as the elder, offer first 

Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

CAIN. 

No — I am new to this; lead thou the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

abel {kneeling). 
Oh God '. 
Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a paradise, 

Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light ! 
Of good, and glory, and eternity; 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill'd — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherds 
1'irst of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

cain {standing erect during this speech). 
Spirit ! whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Siiown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil : 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And, it may be, with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Take them! If thou must be induced with altars, 
And soften' d with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lovest blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service, 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
I spread them on now offers in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen' d them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer' d in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without a victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favour, 
Look on it! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou madest him ; and seeks nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling: if he 's evil, 
Strike him! thou art omnipotent, and mayst, — 



CAIN. 38 i j 


For what can he oppose ? If he he good, 


ABEL. 


Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 


In his great name. 


Rests upon thee; and good and evil seem 


I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 


To have no power themselves, save in thy will; 


Had his acceptance. 


And whether that he good or ill I know not, 


CAIN. 


Not being omnipotent, or fit to judge 


If thou lov'st thyself, 


Omnipotence, hut merely to endure 


Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 


Its mandate, which thus far I have endured. 


Its native soil : — else 


[The fire upon tiie altar ofABELkindles into a 


abel (opposing him). 


column of the brightest flame, and ascends 


I love God far more 


to heaven; while a whirlwind throws down 


Than life. 


the altar of Gain, and scatters the fruits 


cain (striking him with a brand, on the temples, which 


abroad upon the eartJi. 


he snatches from the altar). 


abel (kneeling). 


Then take thy life unto thy God, 


Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah 's wroth with thee ! 


Since he loves lives. 


CAIN. 


abel (falls). 


Why so? 


What hast thou done, my brother? 


ABEL. 


CAIN. 


Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 


Brother ? 


CAIN- 


ABEL. 


From earth they came, to earth let them return; 


Oh, God! receive thy servant, and 


Their seed will hear fresh fruit there ere the summer: 


Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 


Thy burnt flesh-offering prospers better; see 


He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and tell 


How heaven licks up the flames, when thick with blood ! 


Poor Zillah 


ABEL. 


cain (after a moments stupefaction). 


Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 


My hand! 't is all red, and with — 


But make another of thine own before 


What ? 


It is too late. 


[A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 


CAIN. 


Where am I ? alone ! Where 's Abel ? where 


I will build no more altars. 


Cain? Can it be that I am he? My brother, 


Nor suffer any. — 


Awake! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 


ABEL (rising). 


'T is not the hour of slumber: — why so pale? 


Cain ! what meanest thou .' 


What hast thou? thou wert full of life this morn ! 


CAIN. 


Ahel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 


To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the clouds, 


Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 


The smuky harbinger of thy dull prayers — 


Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery; 


Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 


And only done to daunt me : — 't was a blow — 


Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 


And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 


abel (opposing him). 


Why, so — that s well ' — thou breath'st ! breathe upon 


Thou shalt not: — add not impious works to impious 


me ! 


Words! let that altar stand — 't is hallow'd now 


Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 


By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 


abel (very faintly). 


In his acceptance of the victims. 


What 's he who speaks of God? 

CAIN. 

Thy murderer. 


CAIN. 

His ! 


His pleasure! what was his high pleasure in 


ABEL. 


The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood. 


Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 


To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 


Comfort poor Zillah : — she lias but one brother 


Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the pangs 


Now. / [Abel dies. 


Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 


■t CAIN. 


Thy pious knife ? Give way! this bloody record 


And I none ! Who makes me brotherless ? 


Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 


His eyes are open! then he is not dead! 


ABEL. 


Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 


Brother, give back! thou shalt not touch my altar 


His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 


With violence: if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 


And yet I feel it not. — His heart ! — his heart ! — 


Let me see, doth it beat? — methinks No!— no! 




This is a vision, else I am become 


CAIN. 


The native of another and worse world. 


Another sacrifice! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 


The earth swims round me: — what is this? — 't is wet; 


[Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at it. 


ABEL. 


And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blood — my blood — 


What meanest thou ? 


My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 


CAIN. 


Then what have I further to do with life, 


Give — 


Since I have taken life from my own flesh? 


Give way! thy God loves blood ! — Then look to it: — 


But he can not be dead ! — Is silence death? 


Give way, ere he hath more ! 


No • he will wake: then let me watch bv him. 



382 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him? — My brother! — No; 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 

ZILLAH. 

I heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 
T is Cain; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep? Oh! heaven! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ?— No ! no ! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel! what's this? — who hath done this? He moves 

not; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
With stony lifelessness ! Ah! cruel Gain ! 
Why earnest thou not in time to save him from 
This violence? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst have stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit Zillah, calling on her parents, etc. 

CAIN (solus). 

And who hath brought him there ?— I— who abhor 

The name of death so deeply, that the thought 

Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 

His aspect — I have led him here, and given 

My brother to his cold and still embrace, 

As if he would not have asserted his 

Inexorable claim without my aid. 

I am awake at last— a dreary dream 

Had madden'd me : — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 



A voice of woe from Zillah brings me here. — 
What do I see ? — 'T is true !— My son!— my sou ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 
eve. 
Oh! speak not of it now: the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me! 

ADAM. 

Who, 
Or what hath done this deed?— Speak, Gain, since thou 
Wert present : was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

EVE. 

Ah! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud! yon brand, 
Massy and bloody! snatch'd from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

ADAM. 

Speak, my son ! 
Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
That we are not more miserable still. 

ADAH. 

Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 

EVE. 

It was. 



I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

ADAH. 

Mother, thou dost him wrong — 
Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal. 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

EVE. 

Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
May all his days be desolate ! May 

ADAH. 

Hold! 
Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

EVE. 

He hath left thee no brother — 
Zillah no husband — me no son! — for this 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 
That of his nature, in yon — Oh death! death ! 
Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee 
Why dost thou not so now 1 

ADAM. 

Eve ! let not this, 
Thy natural grief, lead to impiety! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

eve (pointing to Cain). 
His will! the will of yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us, 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood, as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 

[Exit E 

ADAM. 

Cain ! get thee forth: we dwell no more together. 
Depart ! and leave the dead to me— I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

ADAH. 

Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 



CAIN. 



383 



ADAM. 

I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah ! 

ZILLAII. 

I must watch my husband's corse. 

ADAM. 

We -will return again, -when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

ZILLAH. 

Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 
And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 

[Exeunt Adam and Zilla weeping. 

ADAH. 

Cain ! thou hast heard, -we must go forth. I am ready, 

So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 

And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 

Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 

Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 

To me — thine own. 

CAIN. 

Leave me ! 

ADAH. 

Why, all have left thee. 

CAIN. 

And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

ADAH. 

I fear 
Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed -which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, 
Cain ! Cain ! 

ADAH. 

Hearst thou that voice? 
The Voice witliin. 
Cain! Cain ! 

ADAH. 

It soundeth like an angel's tone. 
Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

ANGEL. 

Where is thy brother Abel ? 

CAIN. 

Am I then 
My brother's keeper ? 

ANGEL. 

Cain ! what hast thou done? 
The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out, 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord! — Now art thou 
Cursed from the earth, which opeu'd late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall 

not 
Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 

ADAH. 

This punishment is more than he can bear. 
Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'T will come to pass, that avIioso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. 
Would they could ! but who are they 



Shall slay me? where are these on the lone earth, 
As yet unpeopled ? 

AXGEL. 

Thou hast slain thy brother, 
And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

ADAH. 

Angel of light ! be merciful, nor say 

That this poor aching breast now nourishes 

A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

ANGEL. 

Then he would but be what his father is. 

Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 

To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood ? 

The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 

But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 

And mine commandeth me to set his seal 

On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 

Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 

Be taken on his head. Come hither! 

CAIN. 

What 

Wouldst thou with me ? 

ANGEL. 

To mark upon thy brow- 
Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 

CAIN. 

No, let me die ! 

ANGEL. 

It must not be. 
[The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 

CAIN. 

It burns 
My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 

ANGEL. 

Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 

CAIN. 
After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself ; but could I 
With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
And why not so ? let him return to day, 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

ANGEL. 

Who shall heal murder? what is done is done. 

Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 

Unlike the last! [The Angel disappears. 

ADAH. 

He 's gone, let us go forth; 
I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

CAIN. 

Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for ! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears! 
But the four rivers ' would not cleanse my soul. 
Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me? 

ADAH. 

If I thought that he would not, I would — 

, The u four rivers n which flowed round Eden, and consequently 
the only waters with which Cain was acquainted upon the earth. 



384 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



c\in {interrupting her). 



No, 



No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children} I will follow thee. 

ADAH. 

I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let us depart together. 

CAIN. 

Oh ! thou dead 
And everlasting witness! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art, 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not, touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprang from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
la fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who hath dug that grave! Oh, earth ! Oh, earth! 
For all the fruits thou hast render d to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops down, and kisses the body of Abel. 



adau. 
A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
Has been thy lot! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them ; 
Hut yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

CAIN. 

Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
'T is the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

ADAH. 

Lead! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 

CAIN. 

And lie who lieth there was childless. 

I have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 

Which might have graced his recent marriage couch 

And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 

Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 

Abel ! 

ADAH. 

Peace be with him! 



$ut with me! 



[Exeunt. 



A TRAGEDY. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE : 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 



PREFACE. 



The following drama is taken entirely from '[the « Ger- 
man's Tale, Kruitzner,» published many years ago in 
« Lee's Canterbury Tales;-* written (I believe) by two 
sisters, of whom one furnished only this story and 
another, both of which are considered superior to the 
remainder of the collection. I have adopted the cha- 
racters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of 
this story. Some of the characters are modified or 
altered, a few of the names changed, and one character 
(Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself: but in the rest 
the original is chiefly followed. When I was young 
(about fourteen, I think) I first read this tale, which 
made a deep impression upon me; and may, indeed, be 
said to contain the germ of much that I have since 
written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular ; or 
at any rate its popularity has since been eclipsed by that 
of other great writers in the same department. But I 
have generally found that those who had read it, agreed 
with me in their estimate of the singular power of mind 
and conception which it developes. I should also add 



conception, rather than execution; for the story might, 
perhaps, have been more developed with greater advan- 
tage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine 
upon this story, I could mention some very high names; 
but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; for every 
one must judge according to their own feelings. I merely 
refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am 
not unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure 
in perusing it than the drama which is founded upon 
its contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 
181 5 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen 
years old, called « Ulric and Ilvina,» which I had sense 
enough to burn), and had nearly completed an act, 
when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is some- 
where amongst my papers in England ; but as it has 
not been found, I have re-written the first, and added 
the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
adapted, for the stage. 

February, 1822. 



WERNER. 



385 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 




Werner. 


Henrick. 


Ulric. 


Eric. 


Stralenheim. 


Arnheim 


Idenstein. 


Meister. 


Gabor. 


RODOLPH. 


Fritz. 


LUDWIG. 


WOMEN. 




Josephine. 




Ida Stralenheim. 



Scene — partly on the frontier of Silesia, and partly in 
Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time — the close of the thirty years' war. 



WERNER. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on the 
northern Frontier of Silesia — the Night tempestuous. 

Werner and Josephine his wife. 

JOSEPHINE. 

My love, be calmer! 

WERNER. 

I am calm. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Tome- 
Yes, but not to thyself : thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
But here ! 

WERNER. 

'T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ah, no ! 

werner (smiling). 
Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

I would 
Have it a healthful current. 

WERNER. 

Let it flow 
Until 't is spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And am I nothing in thy heart? 

WERNER. 

All—all. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine ? 

werner (approaching her slowly). 
But for thee I had been — no matter what, 
But much of good and eVil ; what I am, 



Thou knowest ; what I might or should have been, 
Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner walks on abruptly, and then ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night, 
Perhaps, affects me : I 'm a thing of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
In watching me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

WERNER. 

Where hast thou seen such ? 
Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

But think 
How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth, 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

WERNER. 

And that 's not the worst : who cares 
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And art thou not now shelter'd from them all? 

WERNER. 

Yes. And from these alone. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And that is something. 

WERNER. 

True— to a peasant. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Should the nobly born 
Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 

WERNER. 

It is not that, thou know'st it is not: we 
Have borne all this, I 11 not say patiently, 
Except in thee — but we have borne it. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Well ! 

WERNER. 

Something beyond our outward sufferings (though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
And leaves us, — no ! this is beyond me ! but 
For this I had been happy— thou been happy — 
The splendour of my rank sustain' d — my name — 
My father's name — been still upheld ; and, more 

Than those 

Josephine (abruptly). 
My son — our son— our Ulric, 
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms, 

49 



386 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 


By the snares of this avaricious fiend — 


Twelve years I he was but eight then : beautiful 


How do I know he hath not track'd us here ? 


He was, and beautiful he must be now. 


JOSEPHINE. 


My Ulric ! my adored ! 


He does not know thy person ; and his spies, 


WERNER. 


Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh. 


I have been full oft 


Our unexpected journey, and this change 


The chase of fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 


Of name, leaves all discovery far behind : 


My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 


None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 


Sick, poor, and lonely. 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Save what we seem ! save what we are — sick beggars, 


Lonely! my dear husband? 


Even to our very hopes. Ha! ha! 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Or worse — involving all I love, in this 


Alas! 


Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 


That bitter laugh ! 


And all been over in a nameless grave. 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Who would read in this form 


And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 


The high soul of the son of a long line ? 


Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive 


Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands? 


With fortune win or weary her at last, 


Who, in this sunken sickly eye, the pride 


So that they find the goal, or cease to feel 


Of rank and ancestry? in this worn cheek, 


Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 


And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls 


WERNER. 


Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 


We were in sight of him, of every thing 


JOSEPHINE. 


Which could bring compensation for past sorrow — 


You 


And to be baffled thus ! 


Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 


JOSEPHINE. 


My Werner! when you deign'd to chuse for bride 


We are not baffled. 


The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Are we not pennyless? 


An exile's daughter with an outcast son 


JOSEPHINE. 


Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 


We ne'er were wealthy. 


To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 


WERNER. 


Your father's house was noble, though decay'd; 


But I was born to wealth, and rank, and power ; 


And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 


Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas! abused them, 


JOSEPHINE. 


And forfeited them by my father's wrath, 


Your father did not think so, though 't was noble; 


In my o'er-fervent youth; but for the abuse 


But had my birth been all my claim to match 


Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 


With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 


Left the path open, yet not without snares. 


WERNER, 


This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 


And what is that in thine eyes? 


Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 


JOSEPHINE. 


The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me, 


All which it 


Become the master of my rights, and lord 


Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 


Of that which lifts him up to princes in 


WERNER. 


Dominion and domain. 


How, — nothing? 


JOSEPHINE. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Who knows? our son 


Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 


May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 


Thy heart from the beginning : but for this, 


Even now uphold thy rights for thee ! 


We had not felt our poverty, but as 


WERNER. 


Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully; 


'T is hopeless. 


But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 


Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 


Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread as thousands earn it ; 


Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 


Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 


Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 


Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 


I parted with him to his grandsire, on 


werner (ironically). 


The promise that his anger would stop short 


And been an Hanseatic burgher ? Excellent ! 


Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 


JOSEPHINE. 


To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 


Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou art, 


Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 


What no state, high or low, can ever change, 


JOSEPHINE. 


My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, knowing 


j I must hope better still, — at least we have yet 


neither 


Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 


Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; nought, save thy sorrows: 


■WERNER. 


While they last, let me comfort or divide them; 


We should have done, but for this fatal sickness, 


When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 


More fatal than a mortal malady, 


WERNER. 


Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : 


My better angel ! such I have ever found thee ; 


Even now I feel my spirit girt about 


This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 



WERNER. 387 


Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 


Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon), 


Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 


And has done miracles i' the way of business. 


In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 


Perhaps you are related to my relative? 


Had such been my inheritance; but now, 


WERNER. 


Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 


To yours ? 


Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee! 


JOSEPHINE. 


Trust me, when in my two-and-twentieth spring, 


Oh, yes, we are, but distantly. 


My father barr'd me from my father's house, 


[Aside to Werner. 


The last sole scion of a thousand sires 


Cannot you humour the dull gossip till 


(For I was then the last), it hurt me less 


We learn his purpose ? 


Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 


IDENSTEIN. 


Excluded in their innocence from what 


Well, I 'm glad of that ; 


My faults deserved exclusion; although then 


I thought so all along; such natural yearnings 


My passions were all living serpents, and 


Play'd round my heart — blood is not water, cousin ; 


Twined like the gorgon's round me. 


And so let 's have some wine, and drink unto 


[A knocking is heard. 


Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 


JOSEPHINE. 


Friends. 


Hark! 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


You appear to have drunk enough already, 


A knocking ! 


And if you had not, I 've no wine to offer, 


JOSEPHINE. 


Else it were yours ; but this you know, or should know : 


Who can it be at this lone hour ? we have 


You see I am poor and sick, and will not see 


Few visitors. 


That I would be alone; but to your business ! 


WERNER, 


What brings you here? 


And poverty hath none, 


IDENSTEIN. 


Save those who come to make it poorer still. 


Why, what should bring me here ? 


Well, I am prepared. 


WERNER. 


[Werner puts his hand into his bosom as if to 


I know not, though I think that I could guess 


search for some weapon. 


That which will send you hence. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Josephine {aside). 


Oh! do not look so. I 


Patience, dear Werner ! 


Will to the door, it cannot be of import 


IDENSTEIN. 


In this lone spot of wintry desolation — 


You don't know what has happen'd, then ? 


The very desert saves man from mankind. 


JOSEPHINE. 


[She goes to the door. 


How should we? 


Enter Idenstein. 


IDENSTEIN. 

The river has o'erflow'd. 


IDENSTEIN. 


JOSEPHINE. 


A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 


Alas ! we have known 


And worthy what 's your name my friend? 


That to our sorrow, for these five days, since 


WERNER. 


It keeps us here. 


Are you 


IDENSTEIN. 


Not afraid to demand it? 


But what you don't know is, 


IDENSTEIN. 


That a great personage, who fain would cross 


Not afraid ! 


Against the stream,, and three postilions' wishes, 


Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 


Is drown' d below the ford, with five post-horses, 


I ask'd for something better than your name, 


A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 


By the face you put on it. 


JOSEPHINE. 


WERNER. 

Better, sir? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Better or worse, like matrimony, what 

Shall I say more ? You have been a guest this month 


Poor creatures! are you sure? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet 


Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure 

His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 

And rats these twelve years— but 't is still a palace) — 

I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 

We do not know your name. 

WERNER. 


We know not if his excellency's dead 

Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 

As it is fit that men in office should be; 

But, what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 

Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants; 

And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 


My name is Werner. 

IDENSTEIN. 


Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 


The whirling river, have sent on to crave 


A goodly name, a very worthy name, 


A lodging, or a grave, according as 


As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board ; 


It may turn out with the live or dead body. 


I have a cousin in the lazaretto 


JOSEPHINE. 


Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 


And where will you receive him? here, I hope. 


The same. He is an officer of trust, 


If we can be of service — say the word. 

i 



388 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IDENSTEIN. 

Here! no; but in the prince's own apartment, 
As fits a noble guest: 'tis damp, no doubt, 
Not having been inhabited these twelve years; 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 
Still liable to cold— and if not, why 
He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
I have order' d fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
In case he should survive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor gentleman ! 
I hope he will, with all my heart. 

WERNER. 

Intendant, 
Have you not learn'd his name? My Josephine, 

[J side to his wife, 
Retire, I '11 sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 

IDENSTEIN. 

His name? oh Lord! 
Who knows if he hath now a name or no? 
T is time enough to ask it when he 's able 
To give an answer, or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought, 
Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 

WERNER. 

True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 
Enter Gabor. 



gabor. 
If I intrude, I crave 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh, no intrusion ! 
This is the palace : this a stranger like 
| Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
But where 's his excellency, and how fares he? 

GABOR. 

Wetly and wearily, but out of peril; 

He paused to change his garments in a cottage 

(Where I doff d mine for these, and came on hither), 

And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 

He will be here anon. 

IDENSTEIN. 

What ho, there ! bustle ! 
Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad! 

[Gives directions to different servants who enter. 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is in order in the damask cbamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for, 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 

GABOR. 

Faith ! 
I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow 
Would ple;ise him better than the table, after 
Uis soaking in your river: but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honour to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 



IDENSTEIN. 

But are you sure 
His excellency but his name, what is it? 

GABOR. 

I do not know. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And yet you saved his life. 

GABOR. 

I help'd my friend to do so. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well, that 's strange, 
To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

GABOR. 

Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Pray, 
Good friend, and who may you be? 

GABOR. 

By my family, 
Hungarian. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Which is call'd? 

GABOR. 

It matters little. 
idenstein (aside). 
I think that all the world are grown anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell me -what he 's call'd ! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 

GABOR. 

Sufficient. 

IDENSTEIN. 

How many? 

GABOR. 

I did not count them. 
We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well, what would I give to save a great man! 

No doubt you '11 have a swingeing sum as recompense. 

GABOR. 

Perhaps. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Now, how much do you reckon on? 

GABOR. 

I have not yet put up myself to sale: 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hochheimer, a green glass, 
Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd (although I own 
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you), 
I 11 pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

idenstein {aside). 
I don't much like this fellow — close and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not; however, 
Wine he shall have; if that unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit Idenstein 
gabor (to werner). 
This master of the ceremonies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume? 
'T is a fine building, but decay'd. 



WERNER. 389 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


The apartment 


I was. 


Deslgn'd for him you rescued will be found 


GABOR. 


In fitter order for a sickly guest. 


You look one still. All soldiers are 


GABOR. 


Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 


I wonder then you occupied it not, 


Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 


For you seem delicate in health. 


(While levell'd) at each other's hearts; but when 


WERNER (quickly). 


A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 


Sir! 


The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 


GABOR. 


The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren. 


Pray 


You are poor and sickly — I am not rich but healthy; 


Excuse me: have I said aught to offend you? 


I want for nothing which I cannot want; 


WERNER. 


You seem devoid of this — wilt share it? 


Nothing: but we are strangers to each other. 


[Gabor pulls out his purse. 


GABOR. 


WERNER. 


And that 's the reason I would have us less so ! 


Who 


I thought our bustling guest without had said 


Told you I was a beggar? 


You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart 


GABOR. 


Of me and my companions. 


You yourself, 


WERNER. 


In saying you were a soldier during peace time. 


Very true. 


werner (looking at him with suspicion). 


GABOR. 


You know me not? 


Then, as we never met before, and never, 


GABOR. 


It may be, may again encounter, why, 


I know no man, not even 


I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 


Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 


(At least to me) by asking you to share 


Beheld till half an hour since? 


The fare of my companions and myself. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Sir, I thank you. 


Pray, pardon me ; my health 


Your offer 's noble, were it to a friend, 


GABOR. 


And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 


Even as you please. 


Though scarcely prudent; but no less I thank you. 


I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 


I am a beggar in all save his trade, 


In bearing. 


And when I beg of any one, it shall be 


WERNER. 


Of him who was the first to offer what 


I have also served, and can 


Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 


Piequite a soldier's greeting. 


[Exit Werner. 


GABOR. 


GABOR (sollis). 


In what service? 


A goodly fellow by his looks, though worn, 


The imperial? 


As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 


werner (quickly, and Hien interrupting himself). 


Which tear life out of us before our time: 


I commanded — no — I mean 


I scarce know which most quickly; but he seems 


I served ; but it is many years ago, 


To have seen better days, as who has not 


When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 


Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 


The Austrian. 


Our sage intendant, with the wine; however, 


GABOR. 


For the cup's sake I '11 bear the cup-bearer. 


Well, that 's over now, and peace 
Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 




Enter Idenstein. 


To live as they best may : and, to say truth, 


IDENSTEIN. 


Some take the shortest. 


'T is here! the supernaculum ! twenty years 


WERNER. 


Of age, if 'tis a day. 


What is that? 


GABOR. 


GABOR. 


Which epoch makes 


Whate'er 


Young women and old wine, and 't is great pity 


They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 


Of two such excellent things, increase of years, 


Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 


Fill full — Here 's to our hostess— your fair wife. 

[Takes the glass. 


Their castle walls — beyond them t is but doubtful 


IDENSTEIN. 


Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I 've little left to lose now. 


Fair! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal 


To that you show for beauty! but I pledge you 
Nevertheless. 




GABOR. 


WERNER. 


Is not the lovely woman 


And I — nothing. 


I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 


GABOR. 


Au air, and port, and eye, which would have better 


That 's harder still. You say you were a soldier? 


Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days 



3go 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
xVbandoument), return'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse? 

IDENSTEIN. 

I would she were! 
Cut you 're mistaken — that *s the stranger's wife. 

GABOR. 

And by her aspect she might be a prince's: 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And that 
Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty; as for majesty, 
She has some of its properties -which might 
Be spared— but never mind ! 

GABOR. 

I don't. But who 
May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

IDENSTEIN. 

There I differ. 
He 's poor as Job, and not so patient; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name (and that I only learn'd 
To-night), I know not. 

GABOR. 

But how came he here ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In a most miserable old caleche. 

About a month since, and immediately 

Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 

GABOR. 

Tender and true ! — but why? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why, what is life 
Without a living? He has not a stiver. 

GABOR. 

In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's true; but pity, as you know, does make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time, 
Which paid their way up to the present hour, 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for fire-wood. 

GABOR. 

Poor souls ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

GABOR. 

And yet unused to poverty, 
If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh ! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

GABOR. 

Werner ! I have heard the name, 
But it may be a feign'd one. 



IDENSTEIN. 

Like enough ! 
But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
I must be at my post: will you not join me, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door? 

GABOR. 

I dragg'd him 
From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough: they stood aloof then 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
All roaring, « Help!» but offering none; and as 
For duty (as you call it) I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

/cringe!— but I shall lose the opportunity- 
Plague take it ! he '11 be here, and I not there .' 

[Exit Idenstein, hastily. 

Re-enter Werner. 

Werner ( to himself). 
I heard a noise of wheels and voices. How 
All sounds now jar me! 

(Perceiving Gabor). Still here! Is he not 
A spy of my pursuer's? His frank offer, 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy; 
For friends are slow at such. 

GABOR. 

You seem rapt, 
And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be), for whom this desolate village, and 
Its lone inhabitants, show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

IDENSTEIN (without). 

This way — 
This way, your excellence: — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — pray take my arm, my lord! 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants, partly 
his own, and partly retainers of the domain of which 
Idenstein is intendant. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I '11 rest me here a moment. 

idenstein (to the servants). 
Oh ! a chair ! 
Instantly, knaves! [Stralenheim sits down. 

werner (aside). 
'Tishe! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I 'm better now. 
Who are these strangers ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Please you, my good lord, 
One says he is no stranger. 

werner (aloud and hastily). 
Who says that? 
[They look at him with surprise. 



WERNER. 



39 



IDENSTEIN. 

Why, no one spoke of you, or to you /—but 

Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 

To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 

GABOR. 

I seek not to disturb 
His noble memory. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I apprehend 
This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I owe my rescue. Is not that the other? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state, when I was succour'd, must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

IDENSTEIN. 

He ! — no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue 
Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Meth ought 
That there were two. 

GABOR. 

There were, in company ; 
But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Where is he? 

AN ATTENDANT. 

My lord, he tarried in the cottage, where 
Your excellency rested/or an hour, 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Till 
That hour, arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
And then 

GABOR. 

I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
So much. My comrade may speak' for himself. 
straxenheim (fixing his eyes upon werner, then aside). 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
T is twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes ; and, though my agents still have kept 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
If this be he or no? I thought, ere now, 
To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 

May keep me prisoner here till 

[He pauses and looks at Werner; then resumes. 
This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary ; 
An error would spoil all. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Your lordship seems 



Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on? 

STRALENHEIM. 

'T is past fatigue which gives my weigh'd-down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendour. 

(Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torch-light ; 
And that 's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment : 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

stralenheim (rising and turning to gabor). 
Good night, good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the mean time, I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

GABOR. 

I attend you. 

STRALENHEIM. 

(After a few steps, pauses, and calls Werner). 
Friend ! 

WERNER. 

Sir? 

IDENSTEIN. ^ 

Sir! Lord ! — oh, Lord ! Why don't you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

STRALENHEIM (to IDENSTEIN). 

Peace, intendant ' 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh' 
I am dumb. 

STRALENHEIM (to WERNER). 

Have you been long here ? 

WERNER. 

Long ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I sought 
An answer, not an echo. 

WERNER. 

You may seek 
Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed ! ne'er the less, 
You might reply with courtesy, to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

WERNER. 

When I know it such, 
I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 

STRALENHEIM. 

The intendant said, you had been detain'd by sickness— 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 

werner (quickly). 
I am not journeying the same way. 

STRALENHEIM. 

How know ye 
That, ere you know my route ? 

WERNER. 

Because there is 
But one way that the rich and poor must tread 



3 9 2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days; henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your language is above 



Your station. 



Your garb. 



Is it! 



■werner (bitterly), 
STRALENHEIM. 

Or, at least, beyond 



WERNER. 

'T is well that it is not beneath it, 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
stralenheim (startled). 

I! 

WERNER. 

Yes — you! You know me not, and question me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have; 
And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

WERNER. 

Many have such : — Have you none ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

None which can 
Interest a mere stranger. 

WERNER. 

Then forgive 
The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him 

STRALENHEIM. 

Sir, 
I will not baulk your humour, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but, good night ! 
Intendant, show the way ! 

(to Gabor). Sir, you will with me? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants, Idenstein 
and Gabor. 

werner (solus). 
'T is he ! I 'm taken in the toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward 
Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore), when 
I came upon the frontier; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls— fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
Had baffled the slow-hounds in their pursuit. 
What 's to be done ? He knows me not by person; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognised him, after twenty years, 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who, 
No doubt, is a mere-tool and spy of Stralenheim's 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 



How can I hope? An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair; and now, 't is such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
And I 'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honours, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favouring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation. 

FRITZ. 

Immediately. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I tell you, 't is impossible. 

FRITZ. 

It must 
Be tried, however; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I will do what I can. 

FRITZ. 

And recollect 
To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The baron is retired to rest? 

FRITZ. 

He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers; and has order'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Before 
An hour is past I '11 do my best to serve him. 

FRITZ. 

Remember! [Exit Fritz. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The devil take these great men ! they 
Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling: 
But no, « it must,» and there's an end. How now ? 
Are you there, Mynheer Werner? 

WERNER. 

You have left 
Your noble guest right quickly. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes — he's dozing, 
And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses; 
But I must not lose time : good night! 

[Exit Idenstein. 

WERNER. 

«To Frankfort !» 
So, so, it thickens! Ay, « the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret, fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a table in a recess. 



WERNER. 



3 9 ^ 



Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark !— footsteps ! How do I know that Straleuheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation? 
That he suspects me 's certain. I 'm alone; 
He with a numerous train. I weak; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
He full blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark! nearer still ! 
I '11 to the cecret passage, which communicates 

With the No ! all is silent — 't was my fancy ! — 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of: it will serve me as a den 

Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 

[Werner draws a pannel and exit, closing it 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephine, 
gabor. 
Where is your husband ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Here, I thought : I left him 
Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

GABOR. 

Baron Stralenheim 
Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas ! 
What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner? 

GABOR. 

That you know best. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Or, if it were so, how 
Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
Bather than that of him whose life you saved ? 

GABOR. 

I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, aud 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them, and my spirit boils up when 
I find them practising against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It wculd be 
Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intentions. 

GABOR. 

Is he so suspicious ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

GABOR. 

I 'm sorry for it. 
Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 



With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night. I trust to meet with him at day-break. 

[Exit Gabor. 

Re-enter Idenstein and some peasants. Josephine 
retires tip the Hall. 

FIRST PEASANT. 

But if I'm drown'd? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why, yon '11 be well paid for 't, 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

SECOND PEASANT. 

But our wives and families ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
Be better. 

THIRD PEASANT. 

I have neither, and will venture. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed ; 
And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
Two thalers. 

THIRD PEASANT. 

No more ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Out upon your avarice ! 
Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
When had you half the sum? 

THIRD PEASANT. 

Never — but ne'er 
The less I must have three. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Have you forgot 
Whose vassal you were born, knave? 

THIRD PEASANT. 

No — the prince's, 
And not the stranger's. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sirrah ! in the prince's 
Absence, I 'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
My intimate connexion. — « Cousin Idenstein! 
(Quoth he) you '11 order out a dozen villains. » 
And so, you villains! troop — march — march, I say: 
And if a single dog's ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch d as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Befractory vassals, who cannot effect 
Impossibilities — Away, ye earth-worms ! 

[Exit, driving them out. 
Josephine (coming forward). 
I fain would shun these scenes, too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 

5o 



394 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In servitude, o'er something still more servile; 

And vice in misery affecting still 

A tatter'd splendour. What a state of being! 

In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 

Our nobles were but citizens and merchants 

Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 

As these; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 

Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 

Was in itself a meal, and every vine 

Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 

The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 

(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 

His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 

Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 

Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 

But, here ! the despots of the north appear 

To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 

Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 

To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 

His form. And 't is to be amongst these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 

That twenty years of usage, such as no 

Father, born in a humble state, could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal, 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature; 

But I, born nobly also, from my father's 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father! 

May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 

Look down on us and our so long desired 

Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 

What *s that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be : and thus. 

£ttier Werner /i«sfr7y, with the knife in his hand, by the 
secret pannel, whicli he closes hurriedly after him. 

werner (not at first recognising her). 

Discover'd! then I'll stab (recognising her). 

Ah ! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

What rest? My God! 
What doth this mean? 

werner (showing a rouleau). 

Here 's gold — gold, Josephine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 

WERNER. 

'T is bloodless— -jet 
Away— we must to our chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

But whence com'st thou 1 

WERNER. 

Ask not ! but let us think where we shall go — 
This — this will make us way (shoiving the gold). 
1 '11 fit them now. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour. 

WERNER. 

Dishonour ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

I have said it. 

WERNER. 

Let us hence : 
T is the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And not the worst, I hope. 



WERNER. 

Hope ! I make sure. 
But let us to our chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet one question ! 
What hast thou done ? 

werner (fiercely). 

Left one thing undone, which 
Had made all well : let me not think of it. 
Away ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the same Palace. 
Enter Idenstein and others. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings! 

A baroii pillaged in a prince's palace ! 

Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

FRITZ. 

It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day ! 
The honour of our city 's gone for ever. 

FRITZ. 

Well, but now to discover the delinquent ; 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And so am I. 

FRITZ. 

But whom do you suspect? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Suspect! all people 
Without — within-sabove — below — Heaven help me ! 

FRITZ. 

Is there no other entrance to the chamber; 

IDENSTEIN. 

None whatever. 

FRITZ. 

Are you sure of that? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Certain. I have lived and served here since my birth, 
And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

FRITZ. 

Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Doubtless. 

FRITZ. 

The man call'd Werner 's poor! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Poor as a miser, 
But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
By which there 's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he : 
Besides, I bade him « good night» in the hall, 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 



WERNER. 395 


FRITZ. 


Search empty pockets; also, to arrest 


There 's another — 


All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 


The stranger — 


Prisoners we '11 have at least, if not the culprit; 


IDENSTEIN. 


And for the baron's gold — if 't is not found, 


The Hungarian? 


At least he shall have the full satisfaction 


FRITZ. 


Of melting twice its substance in the raising 


He who help'd 


The ghost of this rouleau. Here 's alchymy 


To fish the baron from the Oder. 


For your lord's losses ! 


IDENSTEIN. 


FRITZ. 


Not 


He hath found a better. 


Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 


IDENSTEIN. 


One of the suite ? 


Where ? 


FRITZ. 


FRITZ. 


How? We, Sir ! 


In a most immense inheritance. 


IDENSTEIN. 


The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 


No — not you, 


Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 


But some of the inferior knaves. You say 


Is on his way to take possession. 


The baron was asleep in the great chair — 


IDENSTEIN. 


The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown ; 


Was there 


His toilet spread before him, and upon it 


No heir? 


A cabinet with letters, papers, and 


FRITZ. 


Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 


Oh, yes; but he has disappear'd 


Has disappear'd: — the door unbolted, with 


Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 


No difficult access to any. 


A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 


FRITZ. 


For the last twenty years; for whom his sire 


Good sir, 


Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 


Be not so quick: the honour of the corps, 


If living, he must chew the husks still. But 


Which forms the baron's household, s unimpeach'd, 


The baron would find means to silence him, 


From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 


Were he to re-appear: he 's politic, 


Of peculation; such as in accompts, 


And has much influence with a certain court. 


Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 


IDENSTEIN. 


Where all men take their prey ; as also in 


He 's fortunate. 


Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 


FRITZ. 


Purveyiug feasts, and understanding with 


'T is true, there is a grandson, 


The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 


Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hands, 


But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 


And educated as his heir; but then 


We scorn it as we do board-wages : then 


His birth is doubtful. 


Had one of our folks done it, he would not 


IDENSTEIN. 


Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 


How so? 


His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 


FRITZ. 


Also the cabinet, if portable. 


His sire made 


IDENSTEIN. 


A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 


There is some sense iu that 


With au Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter: 


FRITZ. 


Noble, they say, too; but no match for such 


No, sir ; be sure 


A house as Siegendorf s. The grandsire ill 


'T was none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 


Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought 


Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 


To see the parents, though he took the son. 


The only question is — Who else could have 


IDENSTEIN. 


' Access, save the Hungarian and yourself ? 


If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 


IDENSTEIN. 


Dispute your claim, aud weave a web that may 


You don't mean me ? 


Puzzle your baron to unravel. 


FRITZ. 


FRITZ. 


No, sir ; I honour more 


Why, 


Your talents 


For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 


IDENSTEIN. 


He forms a happy mixture of his sire 


And my principles, I hope. 


And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 


FRITZ. 


The former, and deep as the latter; but 


Of course. But to the point : What 's to be done ? 


The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 


IDENSTEIN. 


Some months ago. 


Nothing — but there 's a good deal to be said. 


IDENSTEIN. 


We '11 offer a reward; move heaven and earth, 


The devil he did ! 


And the police (though there 's none hearer than 


FRITZ. 


Frankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 


Why, yes ; 


(For we 've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 


It must have been at his suggestion, at 


To read them (for few can, save he aud I). 


An hour so critical as was the eve 


We '11 send out villains to strip beggars, and 


Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 



3 9 6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IDENSTEIN. 

Was there no cause assign'd ? 

FRITZ. 

Plenty, no doubt, 
And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents; some, because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him): 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
But peace being made soon after his departure, 
He might have since return'd, were that the motive; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised, 
As there was something strange and mystic in him, 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature, 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That cannot be. 
j A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
j To risk his life and honours with disbanded 
I Soldiers and desperadoes ! 

FRITZ. 

Heaven best knows! 
But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
j Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own aceount. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 
And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly, compared with what 
I Your courteous courage did in my behalf. 

ULRIC. 

I pray you press the theme no further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

But 
Can I not serve you? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes; fair in favour; 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so, 
And, doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
j Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
! As ardently for glory as you dared 
I An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 
In an as perilous but opposite element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 



Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends 
Who shall be yours. T is true, this pause of peace 
Favours such views at present scantily; 



But 't will not last, 



men s spirits are too stirring 



And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
fs but a petty war, as the 'times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own; and, in the mean time, 
You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburgh, wherein 
r stand well with the elector; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

ULRIC. 

You perceive my garb 
Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 't is with the same feeling which 
induced it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Why, this is mere usury! 
[ owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

ULRIC. 

You shall say so when 
[ claim the payment. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well, sir, since you will not — 
You are nobly born ? 

ULRIC. 

I 've heard my kinsmen say so. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your actions show it. Might I ask your name ? 

ULRIC 

Ulric. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your house's ? 

ULRIC 

When I 'm worthy of it, 
I '11 answer you. 

stralenheim (aside). 
Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forhid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz anrflDENSTEiN. 
So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Indifferent well, your excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then 
I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Humph ! — not exactly. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Or at least suspected. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Who may he be ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why, don't you know, my lord ? 



WERNER. 



3 97 



STRALENHEIM. 

How should I ? I -was fast asleep. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And so 
Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Dolt! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why, if 
Your lordship, being rohb'd, don't recognise 
The rogue; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thief among so many? In the crowd, 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
'T is only at the bar and in the dungeon 
That wise men know your felon by his features; 
But I '11 engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

STRALENHEIM (to FRITZ). 

Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

FRITZ. 

Faith! 
My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects me 
Just now materially), I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough, Sir Intendant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

True ; 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

ULRIC. 

What is all this? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You join'd us but this morning, 
And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 

ULRIC. 

Some rumour of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

It is a strange business : 
The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Most willingly. You see 

stralenheim {impatiently). 

Defer your tale, 
Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 

Can only be approved by proofs. You see 

stralenheim {again interrupting him, and ad- 
dressing ulric). 
In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it (more than I much like to lose, 
Though in part only): some ingenious person 
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 



An hundred golden ducats, which to find 

I would be fain, and there 's an end ; perhaps 

You (as I still am rather faint), would add 

To yesterday's great obligation, this, 

Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 

(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? 

ULRIC. 

Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
{To Idenstein). Come hither, Mynheer! 

IDENSTEIN. 

But so much haste bodes 
Bight little speed, and 

ULRIC. 

Standing motionless, 
None ; so let 's march, we '11 talk as we go on. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But 

ULRIC. 

Show the spot, and then I '11 answer you. 

FRITZ. 

I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 

FRITZ. 

Hence ! 

ULRIC 

Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit with Idenstein and Fritz. 

STRALENHEIM {solus). 

A stalwart, active, soldier-looking stripling; 

Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour, 

And with a brow of thought beyond his years 

When in repose, till his eye kindle up 

In answering yours. I wish I could engage him; 

I have need of some such spirits near me now, 

For this inheritance is worth a struggle: 

And though I am not the man to yield without one, 

Neither are they who now rise up between me 

And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one: 

But he hath play'd the truant iu some hour 

Of freakish foily, leaving fortune to 

Champion his claims: that's well. The father, whom 

For years 1 've track'd, as does the blood-hound, never 

In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 

To fault, but here I have him, and that 's better. 

It must be he! All circumstance proclaims it; 

And careless voices, knowing not the cause 

Of my inquiries, still confirm it — Yes! 

The man, his bearing, and the mystery 

Of his arrival and the time; the account, too, 

The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 

Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect :, 

Besides the antipathy with which we met, 

As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 

By secret instinct that both must be foes 

Deadly, without being natural prey to either; 

All — all — confirm it to my mind: however, 

We '11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 

The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 

Bise not the higher (and the weather favours 

Their quick abatement), and I '11 have him safe 

Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 

His real estate and name ; and there 's no harm done, 

Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 

(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 

He 's poor, and that 's suspicious — he 's unknown, 



3 9 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And that 's defenceless, — true, we have no proofs 
Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence? 
Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 
In other bearings, I should rather lay 
The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
Hath something which I like not; and alone 
Of all around, except the intendant, and 
The prince's household and my own, had ingress 
Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 
gabor. 
As those who fare well every where, when they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Better in rest than purse : 
Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

GABOR. 

I heard 
Of your late loss: but 't is a trifle to 
One of your order. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You would hardly think so 
Were the loss yours. 

GABOR. 

I never had so much 
(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstript them, 
In my return. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You!— Why? 

GABOR. 

I went at day-break, 
To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Would the dogs were in it! 
Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage? 
I order'd this at all risks. 

GABOR. 

Gould you order 
The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream), and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I must see to it: 
The knaves! the slaves! — but they shall smart for this. 

[Exit STRALENHEIM. 
GABOR (solus). 

There goes my noble, feudal, self-will'd baron ! 

Epitome of what brave chivalry 

The preux chevaliers of the good old times 

Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 

His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer, 

His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 

As would have filled a bladder, while he lay 

Gurgling and foaming half way through the window 

Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance; 

And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 



Because they love their lives too! Yet he 's right : 

'T is strange they should, when such as he may put 

them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh! thou world! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest! [Exit Gabor. 



SCENE II. 

The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 
Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Stand back, and let me look on thee again! 
My Ulric! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
After twelve years ? 

ULRIC. 

My dearest mother ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yes! 
My dream is realized — how beautiful — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks! — a mother's tears of joy! 
This is indeed thy work! — At such an hour too, 
He comes not only as a son but saviour. 

ULRIC. 

If such joy await me, it must double 

What I now feel, and lighten, from my heart, 

A part of the long debt of duty, not 

Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me! 

This long delay was not my fault. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I know it. 
But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
My memory, by this oblivious transport! — 
My son! 

Enter Werner. 

WERNER. 

What have we here, more strangers? 

JOSEPHINE. 

No! 
Look upon him! What do you see? 

WfeRNER. 

A stripling, 

For the first time 

ulric (kneeling). 

For twelve long years, my father! 

WERNER. 

Oh, God! 

JOSEPHINE. 

He faints ! 

WERNER. 

No — I am better now — 
Ulric! (Embraces him). 

ULRIC. 

My father, Siegendorf ! 

WERNER (starting). 

Hush ! boy — 
The walls may hear that name ! 

ULRIC. 

What then? 

WERNER. 

Why, then- 
But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again! Why, thou look'st all 



WERNER. 3oq 


I should have been, and was not. Josephine! 


WERNER. 


Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me; 


Ay, if at Prague: 


But had I seen that form amid ten thousand 


But here he is all-powerful : and has spread 


Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 


Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 


This for my son ! 


He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 


ULRIC 


By favour. 


And yet you knew me not ! 


ULRIC. 


WERNER. 


Doth he personally know you? 


Alas! I have had that upon my soul 


WERNER. 


Which makes me look on all men with an eye 


No; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 


That only knows the evil at first glance. 


As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 


ULRIC. 


But owe my temporary liberty 


My memory served me far more fondly: I 


To his uncertainty. 


Have not forgotten aught; and ofttimes in 


ULRIC. 


The proud and princely halls of— (I '11 not name them, 


I think you wrong him 


As you say that 't is perilous), but i' the pomp 


(Excuse me for the phrase); but Stralenheim 


Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 


Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 


To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 


He owes me something both for past and present; 


And wept to see another day go down 


I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me; 


O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 


He hath been plunder'd loo, since he came hither; 


They shall not part us more. 


Is sick; a stranger; and as such not now 


WERNER. 


Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him; 


I know not that. 


I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business ( 


Are you aware my father is no more? 


Which brought me here was chiefly that: but I 


ULRIC. 


Have found, in searching for another's dross, 


Oh heavens ! I left him in a green old age, 


My own whole treasure — you, my parents! 


And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 


werner (agitatedly). 


Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 


Who 


Fell fast around him. T was scarce three months since. 


Taught you to mouth that name of « villain ?» 


WERNER. 


ULRIC 


Why did you leave him ? 


What 


Josephine (embracing ulric). 


More noble name belongs to common thieves? 


Can you ask that question? 


WERNER. 


Is he not here ? 


Who taught you thus to brand an unknown being 


WERNER. 


With an infernal stigma? 


True; he hath sought his parents, 


ULRIC 


And found them; but, oh! how, and in what state! 


My own feelings 


ULRIC. 


Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 


All shall be betterd. What we have to do 


WERNER. 


Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 


Who taught you, long-sought, and ill-found boy! that 


Or rather yours; for I waive all, unless 


It would be safe for my own son to insult me? 


Your father has disposed in such a sort 


ULRIC 


Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 


I named a villain. What is there in common 


So that I must prefer my claim for form : 


With such a being and my father? 


But I trust better, and that all is yours. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Every thing ! 


Have you not heard of Stralenheim? 


That ruffian is thy father! 


ULRIC. 


JOSEPHINE. 


I saved 


Oh, my son ! 


His life but yesterday: he 's here. 


Believe him not — and yet! (Her voice falters). 


WERNER. 


ulric (starts, looks earnestly at werner, and then 


You saved 


says slowly). 


The serpent who will sting us all ! 


And you avow it? 


ULRIC. 


WERNER. 


You speak 


Ulric ! before you dare despise your father, 


Riddles: what is this Stralenheim to us? 


Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 


WERNER. 


Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap, 


Every thing. One who claims our fathers' lands: 


Is it for you to measure passion's force 


Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 


Or misery's temptation? Wait — (not long, 


ULRIC. 


It cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait! — 


I never heard his name till now. The count, 


Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 


Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 


Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin; 


If his own line should fail, might be remotely 


Famine and poverty your guests at table; 


Involved in the succession : but his titles 


Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 


Were never named before me — and what then? 


From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive — 


His right must yield to ours. 


Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 



4oo 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Himself around all that is dear and noble 

Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 

With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 

When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 

Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 

Chance your conductor; midnight for your mantle; 

The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 

Even to your deadliest foe; and he as t were 

Inviting death, by looking like it, while 

His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 

If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 

You turn aside 1 did so. 

ULRIC. 

But 

werner (abruptly). 

Hear me ! 
I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do : 
He 's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From suhtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power— my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : are you not so? 
Who tells you that he knows you not? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you, or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon? 

[He pauses. 

ULRIC. 

Proceed — proceed ! 

WERNER. 

Me he hath ever known, 
And hunted through each change of time — name- 
fortune — 
And why not youl Are you more versed in men? 
He wound snares round me; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn'd 
Even from my presence; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

ulric (looks first at him, and then at Josephine). 
My mother! 

WERNER. 

Ay ! I thought so : you have now 
Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

ULRIC. 

But stay ! 
[Werner rushes out of the chamber. 

JOSEPHINE (to ULRIC). 

Follow him not, until this storm of passion 
Abates. Think'st thou that, were it well for him, 
I had not follow'd? 

ULRIC. 

I obey you, mother, 
Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh ! he is good ! 



Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me who have borne so much with him, and for him, 
That this is but the surface of his soul, 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

ULRIC. 

These then are but my father's principles! 
My mother thinks not with him? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Nor doth he 
Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

ULRIC. 

Explain to me 
More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or, at least, 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ay! 
Hadst thou but done so ! 

Enter Gabor and Idenstein with Attendants. 

GAEOR (to ULRIC). 

1 have sought you, comrade. 
So this is my reward ! 

ULRIC. 

What do you mean? 

GABOR. 

'S death! have I lived to these years, and for this? 
( To Idenstein.) But for your age and folly, I would — 
idenstein. 

Help ! 
Hands off? touch an intendant! 

GABOR. 

Do not think 
T '11 honour you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone, « by choking you myself. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I thank you for the respite; but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

ULRIC. 

Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

GABOR. 

At once, then, 
The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign' d to fix 
His kind suspicious — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Wouldst have me suspect 
My own acquaintances? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

GABOR. 

You shall 
Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men— 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 
ulric (interfering). 

Nay, no violence: 
He 's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 
gabor (letting go idenstein). 

True: 

< The Ravenstone, « Rabenstein," is the slow gibbet of Germany, 
and so called from the ravens perching on it. 



WERNER. 



4-oi 



I am a fool to lose myself because 

Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

LLRIC (tOIDENSTEI.N). 



How 



Fare you? 



Help! 



ULRIC. 

I have help'd you. 

IDENSTEIN. 



Kill him ! then 



I '11 say so. 



GABOR. 

am calm — live on! 

IDENSTEIN. 



That 's more 
Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

GABOR. 

Does he abet you in your accusation? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Does he not? 

GABOR. 

Then next time let him go sink, 
Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenheim. 

gabor (goes up to him). 

My noble lord, I 'm here ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well, sir! 

GABOR. 

Have you aught with me? 

STRALENHEIM. 

What should I 
Have with you ? 

GABOR. 

You know best, if yesterday's 
Flood has not wash'd away your memory; 
But that -s a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person, 
Or chamber — is the charge your own, or his? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I accuse no man. 

GABOR. 

Then you acquit me, baron? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I know not whom to accuse or to acquit, 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

GABOR. 

But you at least 
Should know whom ?iotto suspect. I am insulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught : but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You ! 

GABOR. 

Ay, sir ; and for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed — 



I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 

And circumstance, and proofs; I know enough 

Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me, 

To have at least waited your payment rather 

Than paid myself, had I been eager of 

Your gold. I also know that were I even 

The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 

So recently would not permit you to 

Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 

Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 

But this is nothing; I demand of you 

Justice upon your unjust servants, and 

From your own lips a disavowal of 

All sanction of their insolence : thus much 

You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 

And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

STRALENREIM. 

This tone 
May be of innocence. 

GABOR. 

'S death! who dare doubt it, 
Except such villains as ne'er had it? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You 

Are hot, sir. 

GABOR. 

Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric ! you know this man ; I found him in 
Four company. 

GABOR. 

We found you in the Oder : 
Would we had left you there ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I give you thanks, sir. 

GABOR. 

I've earn'd them; but might have earn'd more from 

others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric ! you know this man ? 

GABOR. 

No more than you do, 
If he avouches not my honour. 

LLRIC. 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connexion led me, honour. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then 
I 'm satisfied. 

gabor (ironically). 
Bight easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I merely said that / 
Was satisfied — not that you were absolved. 

GABOR. 

Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Go to! 
You wax too insolent : if circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you, 
Is the fault mine? Is 't not enough that I 



402 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Decline all question of your guilt or innocence? 

GABOR. 

My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage; 

A vile equivocation : you well know 

Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 

Your looks, a voice — your frowns, a sentence,- you 

Are practising your power on me — because 

You have it; but beware, you know not whom 

You strive to tread on. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Threat'st thou? 

GABOR. 

Not so much 
As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

STRALENHEIM. 

As you have said, 't is true I owe you something, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

GABOR. 

Not with your gold. 

STRALENHEIM. 

With bootless insolence. 
[To his Attendants and IdensteIn. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 

[Exeunt Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

gabor (following). 

I '11 after him and 

ulric (stopping him), 
Not a step. 

GABOR. 

Who shall 
Oppose me? 

ulric. 
Your own reason, with a moment's 
Thought. 

GABOR. 

Must I bear this? 

ULRIC. 

Pshaw ! we all must bear 
The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silk-worm cast his skin — 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words? 

GABOR. 

Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 't were 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There 's something daring in it; but to steal 
The monies of a slumbering man! — 

ULRIC. 

It seems, then, 
You are not guilty. 

GABOR. 

Do I hear aright? 
You, too ! 

ULRIC. 

I merely ask'd a simple question. 

GABOR. 

If the judge ask'd me, I would answer « No» — 
To you I answer thus. [He draws. 

ulric (drawing). 

With all my heart! 



JOSEPHINE. 

Without there! Ho! help! help!— Oh, God! here 's 
murder! [Exit Josephine, shrieking. 

Gabor and Ulric fight. Gabor is disarmed just as 
Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, etc. re-enter. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh ! glorious Heaven ! he 's safe ! 

stralenheim (to Josephine). 

#7io's*afe? 

JOSEPHINE. 

My 

ulric (interrupting her with a stern look, and turning 
afterwards to stralenheim). 

Both! 
Here 's no great harm done. 

stralenheim. 

What hath caused all this? 

ULRIC. 

You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next, 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and 
emphatically in a low voice to Gabor„ 
gabor. 

I thank you 
Less for my life than for your counsel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

These 
Brawls must end here. 

gabor (taking his sword). 

They shall. You have wrong' d me Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword; I would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — Ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — • 
But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquished me, 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Best in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
However — but in friendship. [Exit Gabor. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I will brook 
No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has canceird all the Jittle 
I owed him heretofore for the so vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succour. 
Ulric, you are not hurt? 

ULRIC. 

Not even by a scratch. 

STRALENHEIM (to IDENSTEIN). 

Intendant! take your measures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Secure him ! he hath got his sword again — 
And seems to know the use on 't; 't is his trade 
Belike :— I 'm a civilian. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Fool! are not 
Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 



WERNER. 4o3 


Enough to seize a dozen such? Hence ! after him ! 


He must be made secure, ere twelve hours further. 


ULRIC. 


ULRIC. 


Baron, I do beseech you! 


And what have I to do with this ? 


STRALENHEIM. 


STRALENHEIM. 


I must be 


I have sent 


Obey'd. No words ! 


To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend — 


IDENSTEIN. 


(I have the authority to do so by 


Well, if it must be so — 


An order of the house of Brandenburgh) 


March, vassals! I 'm your leader — and will bring 


For a fit escort; but this cursed flood 


The rear up : a wise general never should 


Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 


Expose his precious life— on which all rests. 


ULRIC. 


I like that article of war. 


It is abating. 


[Exeunt Idenstein and Attendants. 


STRALENHEIM. 


STRALENHEIM. 


That is well. 


Come hither, 


ULRIC. 


Ulric : — what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 


But how 


I recognise her, 't is the stranger's wife 


Am I concern'd? 


Whom they name « Werner.» 


STRALENHEIM. 


ULRIC. 


As one who did so mucli 


T is his name. 


For me, you cannot be indifferent to 


STRALENHEIM. 


That which is of more import to me than 


Indeed ! 


The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him! 


Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? 


The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 


JOSEPHINE. 


Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar when 


Who seeks him? 


He makes against you in the hunter's gap : 


STRALENHEIM. 


Like him he must be spear'd. 


No one — for the present : but 


ULRIC. 


I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 


Why so? 


Alone. 


STRALENHEIM. 


ULRIC. 


He stands 


I will retire with you. 


Between me and a brave inheritance. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Oh! could you see it! But you shall. 


Not so. 


ULRIC. 


You are the latest stranger, and command 


I hope so. 


All places here. 


STRALENHEIM. 


(Aside to Ulric as she goes out.) Oh! Ulric, have a care — 


It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 


Remember what depends on a rash word! 


Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 


ulric (to Josephine). 


The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 


Fear not ! — 


Have skimm'd it lightly : so that now, besides 


[Exit Josephine. 


Its own exuberance, it bears double value 


STRALENHEIM. 


Confronted with whole realms afar and near 


Ulric, I think that I may trust you? 


Made deserts. 


You saved my life — and acts like these beget 


ULRIC. 


Unbounded confidence. 


You describe it faithfully. 


ULRIC. 


STRALENHEIM. 


Say on. 


Ay — could you see it, you would say so — bur 


STRALENHEIM. 


As I have said, you shall. 


Mysterious 


ULRIC 


And long-engender'd circumstances (not 


I accept the omen. 


To be now fully enter'd on) have made 


STRALENHEIM. 


This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 


Then claim a recompense from it and me, 


ULRIC 


Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 


Who? Gabor, the Hungarian? 


And services to me and mine for ever. 


STRALENHEIM. 


ULRIC 


No — this « Werner» — 


And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 


With the false name and habit. 


This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 


ULRIC. 


This paradise? — (As Adam did between 


How can this be? 


The devil and his.)— [Jside.] 


He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 


STRALENHEIM. 


Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 


He doth. 


The man is helpless. 


ULRIC 


STRALENHEIM. 


Hath he no right ? 


He is — 't is no matter : ] 


STRALENHEIM. 


But if he be the man I deem (and that 


Right! none. A disinherited prodigal, 


He is so, all around us here — and much 


Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 


That is not here — confirm my apprehension), 


In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage, 



4o4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 

ULRIC. 

He has a wife, then? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You 'd be sorry to 
Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

ULRIC. 

Is she not so? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No more 
Than he 's your father : — an Italian girl, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with the same Werner. 

ULRIC 

They are childless, then? 

STRALENHEIM. 

There is or was a bastard, 
Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
Rut the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
No one knows whither; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. Why do you smile? 

ULRIC. 

At your vain fears : 
A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee! 

STRALENHEIM. 

All's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 

ULRIC. 

True; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You have harp'd the very string next to my heart. 
I may depend upon you? 

ULRIC. 

'T were too late 
To doubt it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Let no foolish pity shake 
Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) ; he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him; 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine; and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act; 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once— though too rash. 

ULRIC. 

And they, my lord, we know 
By your experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes them 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can lose 

nothing, 
Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest — 
No more. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you 11 keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape? 



ULRIC. 

You may be sure 
You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 



Yours, and for ever. 



STRALENHEIM. 

By this you make me 

ULRIC 

Such is my intention. 



[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret 
Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

gabor. 
Sir, I have told my tale ; if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not — I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 

WERNER. 

How 

Can I, so wretched, give to misery 

A shelter? — wanting such myself as much 

As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

GABOR. 

Or 
The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

WERNER. 

Ah! 

GABOR. 

I care not 
If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself; but will you shelter me? 
I am oppress'd like you— and poor like you — 
Disgraced — 

werner (abruptly). 
Who told you that I was disgraced ? 

GABOR. 

No one; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended; but 
I said / was so — and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

WERNER. 

Again ? 
As I? 

GABOR. 

Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have? You don't believe me 
Guilty of this base theft? 

WERNER. 

No, no — I cannot. 

GABOR. 

Why, that 's my heart of honour! yon young gallant — 

Your miserly intendant, and dense noble — 

All — all suspected me ; and why? because 

I am the worst-clothed and least-named amongst them, 

Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 

My soul might brook to open it more widely 

Than theirs; but thus it is— you poor and helpless — 

Both still more than myself. 



WERNER. 



4o5 



WERNER. 

How know you that? 

GABOR. 

You 're right ; I ask for shelter at the hand 

Which I call helpless; if you now deny it, 

I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 

The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 

By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 

Of the New World, the Spaniard boasts about, 

Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 

Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 

Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 

Because I feel it) as may leave no night-mare 

Upon his heart o' nights. 

WERNER. 

What do you mean? 

GABOR. 

Just what I say; I thought my speech was plain : 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, 
Should aid each other. 

WERNER. 

It is a damn'd world, sir. 

GABOR. 

So is the nearest of the two next, as 

The priests say (and no doubt they should know best), 

Therefore I '11 stick by this — as being loth 

To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 

An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 

It is but a night's lodging which I crave; 

To-morrow I will try the waters, as 

The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

WERNER. 

Abated? Is there hope of that? 

GABOR. 

There was 
At noontide. 

WERNER. 

Then we may be safe. 

GABOR. 



Are 



you 



In peril? 

WERNER. 

Poverty is ever so. 

GABOR. 

That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less? 

WERNER. 

Your poverty ? 

GABOR. 

No — you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
I meant my peril only : you 've a roof, 
And I have none; I merely seek a covert. 

WERNER. 

Bightly; for how should such a wretch as I 
Have gold ? 

GABOR. 

Scarce honestly, to say the truth ou't, 
Although I almost wish you had the baron's, 

WERNER. 

Dare you insinuate ? 

GABOR. 

What? 

WERNER. 

Are you aware 
To whom you speak ? 



GABOR, 

No ; and I am not used 
Greatly to care. (A noise heard without.) But hark! 
they come ! 

WERNER. 

Who come? 

GABOR. 

The intendant and his man-hounds after me: 
I 'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
Think if it were your own case ! 

werner (aside). 

Oh, just God! 
Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

GABOR. 

I see you 're moved; and it shows well in you : 
I may live to requite it. 

WERNER. 

Are you not 
A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

GABOR. 

Not I ! and if 
I were, what is there to espy in you: 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse, might lead to some 
Suspicion; but you best know — what — and why: 
I am his deadliest foe. 

WERNER. 

Foul 

GABOR. 

After such 
A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him — I am his enemy; 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

WERNER. 

I will. 

GABOR. 

But how ? 

werner (slioiving the pannel). 
There is a secret spring; 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 

GABOR. 

Open it, 
And I will use it for the same. 

WERNER. 

I found it, 
As I have said : it leads through winding walls 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

GABOR. 

It is unnecessary : 
How should I make my way in darkness, through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings? 

WERNER. 

Yes, but who knows to what place it may lead? 

/ know not— (mark you !)— but who knows it might not 

Lead even into the chambers of your foe? 

So strangely were contrived these galleries 

By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 

When man built less against the elements 



4o6 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 


I have a question or two for yourself 


Beyond the two first windings ; if you do 


Hereafter ; but we must continue now 


(Albeit I never pass'd them), I '11 not answer 


Our search for t' other. 


For what you may be led to. 


WERNER. 


GABOR. 


You had best begin 


But I will. 


Your inquisition now; I may not be 


A thousand thanks! 


So patient always. 


WERNER. 


IDENSTEIN. 


You '11 find the spring more obvious 


I should like to know, 


On the other side; and, when you would return, 


In good sooth, if you really are the man 


It yields to the least touch. 


That Stralenheim's in quest of? 


GABOR. 


WERNER. 


I '11 in — farewell! 


Insolent! 


[Gabor goes in by the secret pannel. 


Said you not that he was not here? 


WERNER (solus). 


IDENSTEIN. 


What have I done ? Alas ! what had I done 


Yes, one ; 


Before to make this fearful? Let it be 


But there 's another whom he tracks more keenlv, 


Still some atonement that I save the man 


And soon, it may be, with authority 


Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 


Both paramount to his and mine. But, come! 


They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 


Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 




[Exeunt Idenstein and Attendants. 

WERNER. 


Enter Idenstein, and others. 


IDENSTEIN- 


In what 


Is he not here? He must have vanish'd then 


A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 


Through the dim Gothic glass, by pious aid 


And one base sin hath done me less ill than 


Of pictured saints, upon the red and yellow 


The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 


Casements, through which the sunset streams like sunrise 


Thou busy devil! rising in my heart! 


On long pearl-colour'd beards and crimson crosses, 


Thou art too late ! I '11 nought to do with blood. 


And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 


Enter Ulric. 


And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords, 


ulric. 


AH the fantastic furniture of windows, 


I sought you, father. 


Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 


WERNER. 


Likeness and fame alike rest on some panes 


Is 't not dangerous ? 


Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 


ULRIC. 


As frail as any other life or glory. 


No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 


He 's gone, however. 


Or any of the ties between us : more — 


WERNER. 


He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 


Whom do you seek? 


Deeming me wholly his. 


IDENSTEIN. 


WERNER. 


A villain ! 


I cannot think it * 


WERNER. 


'T is but a snare he winds about us both, 


Why need you come so far, then ? 


To swoop the sire and son at once. 


IDENSTEIN. 


ULRIC. 


In the search 


I cannot 


Of him who robb'd the baron. 


Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 


WERNER. 


The doubts that rise like briars in our path, 


Are you sure 


But must break through them as an unarm'd carle 


You have divined the man ? 


Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustling 


IDENSTEIN. 


In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread : 


As sure as you 


Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so; 


Stand there; but where 's he gone? 


We '11 overfly, or rend them. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Who? 


Show me how ! 


IDENSTEIN. 


ULRIC. 


He we sought. 


Can you not guess ? 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


You see he is not here. 


I cannot. 


IDENSTEIN. 


ULRIC. 


And yet we traced him 


That is strange, 


Up to this hall : are you accomplices, 


Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night? 


Or deal you in the black art ? 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


I understand you not. 


I deal plainly: 


ULRIC. 


To many men the blackest. 


Then we shall never 


IDENSTEIN. 


More understand each other. But to change 


It may be 


The topic 







WERNER. 407 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


You mean to pursue it, as 


I would have 


T is of our safety. 


Spared you the trouble; but had I appear'd 


ULRIC. 


To take an interest in you, and still more 


Right; I stand corrected. 


By dabbling with a jewel in your favour, 


I see the subject now more clearly, and 


Ail had been known at once. 


Our general situation in its bearings. 


WERNER. 


The waters are abating; a few hours 


My guardian angel ! 


Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 


This overpays the past ! Cut how wilt thou 


When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 


Fare in our absence? 


And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 


ULRIC. 


Of this same baron, to make way for him. 


Stralenheim knows nothing 


WERNER. 


Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 


And now your remedy? I thought to escape 


I will but wait a day or two with him 


By means of this accursed geld, but now 


To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father, 


I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 


WERNER. 


Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 


To part no more ! 


For motto, not the mintage of the state; 


ULRIC. 


And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 


I know not that ; but at 


"With hissing snakes, who curl around my temples, 


The least we '11 meet again once more. 


And cry to all beholders — lo ! a villain ! 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


My boy I 


You must not use it, at least now ; but take 


My friend — my only child, and sole preserver 1 


This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 


Oh, do not hate me ! 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


A gem! it was my father's. 


Hate my father ! 


ULRIC. 


WERNER. 


And 


Ay, 


As such is now your own. With this you must 


My father hated me: why not my son? 


Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 


ULRIC. 


And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 


Your father knew you not as I do. 


Together with my mother. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Scorpions 


And leave you, 


Are in thy words ! Thou know me? In this guise 


So lately found, in peril too ? 


Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 


ULRIC. 


Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 


Fear nothing ! 


ULRIC. 


The only fear were if we fled together, 


I'll wait! 


For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 


In the mean time be sure that all a son 


Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 


This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour. 


WERNER. 


The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 


I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 


Is not impassable; and when you gain 


Further — that you despise me. 


A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 


ULRIC. 


The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 


Wherefore should I? 


The frontier, and you 're safe. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Must I repeat my humiliation? 


My noble boy ! 


ULRIC. 

No! 


ULRIC. 


I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 


Hush ! hush ! no transports : we '11 indulge in them 


Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 


In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold: 


Not now ; your error has redoubled all 


Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 


The present difficulties of our house, 


And have look'd through him) : it will answer thus 


At secret war with that of Stralenheim ; 


A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 


All we have now to think of is to baffle 


No jewel: therefore, it could not be his; 


Him. I have shown one way. 


And then, the man who was possess'd of this 


WERNER. 


Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 


The only one, 


The barons coin, when he could thus convert 


And I embrace it, as I did my son, 


This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 


Who show'd himself and father's safety in 


By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 


One day. 

ULRIC. 


In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 


And Idenstein will serve you. 


You shall be safe: let that suffice. 


WERNER. 


Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 


I will follow 


Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 


In all things your direction. 


Admitted to our lands? 



4o8 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


Assuredly, 


An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 


Situate as we are now, although the first 


IDENSTEIN. 


Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 


A gipsy or Bohemian, 't is the same, 


Especially the next in blood. 


For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 


ULRIC. 


ULRIC. 


Blood! 't is 


I 've heard so ; but I must take leave. Intendant, 


A word of many meanings : in the veins 


Your servant! — Werner (to Werner, slightly), if that 


And out of them it is a different thing — 


be your name, 


And so it should be, when the same in blood 


Yours. [Exit Ulkic. 


(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 


IDENSTEIN. 


Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 


A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 


A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 


And prettily behaved ! He knows his station, 


WERNER. 


You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 


I do not apprehend you. 


Precedence ! 


ULRIC. 


WERNER. 


That may be — 


I perceived it, and applaud 


And should, perhaps, — and yet — but get ye ready; 


His just discernment and your own. 


You and my mother must away to-night. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Here comes the intendant ; sound him with the gem, 


That 's well- 


'T will sink into his venal soul like lead 


That 's very well. You also know your place, too, 


Into the deep, and bring up slime, and mud, 


And yet I don't know that I know your place. 


And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 


werner (showing the ring). 


With its greased understratum ; but no less 


Would this assist your knowledge? 


Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 


IDENSTEIN. 


The freight is rich, so heave the line in time: 


How '.—What !— Eh ! 


Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 


A jewel ! 


My father ! 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


T is your own, on one condition. 


Let me embrace thee ! 


IDENSTEIN. 


ULRIC. 


Mine ! — Name it ! 


We may be 


WERNER. 


Observed : subdue your nature to the hour! 


That hereafter you permit me 


Keep off from me as from your foe! 


At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 


WERNER. 


A family ring. 


Accursed 


IDENSTEIN. 


Be he who is the stifling cause, which smothers 


A family ! yours ! a gem ! 


The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts, 


I 'm breathless ! 


At such an hour too ! 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


You must also furnish me, 


Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 


An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit 


Here is the intendant. 


This place. 


Enter Idenstein. 


IDENSTEIN. 

But is it real ? let me look on it : 


Master Idenstein, 


Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 


How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 


WERNER. 


The rogue ? 


Come, I '11 trust you j 


IDENSTEIN. 


You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born above 


No, faith ! 


My present seeming. 


ULRIC. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Well, there are plenty more : 


I can't say I did, 


You may have better luck another chase. 


Though this looks like it ; this is the true breeding 


Where is the baron ? 


Of gentle blood ! 


IDENSTEIN. 


WERNER. 


Gone back to his chamber: 


I have important reasons 


And, now I think on 't, asking after you 


For wishing to continue privily 


With nobly-born impatience. 


My journey hence. 


ULRIC. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Your great men 


So then you are the man 


Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 


Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of? 


Of the stung steed replies unto the spur: 


WERNER. 


'T is well they have« horses, too, for if they had not, 


I am not ; 


I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 


But being taken for him might conduct 


They say kings did Sesostris. 


To much embarrassment to me just now, 


IDENSTEIN. 


And to the baron's self hereafter — 't is 


Who was he? 


To spare both, that I would avoid all bustle. 



WERNER. 



i°9 



IDENSTEIN. 

Be you the man or no, 't is not my business; 

Resides, I never should obtain the half 

From this proud niggardly noble, -who would raise 

The country for some missing bits of coin, 

And never offer a precise reward : 

But this .' Another look ! 

WERNER. 

Gaze on it freely, 
At day-dawn it is yours. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
Thou more than stone of the philosopher ; 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou load-star of 
The soul ? the true magnetic pole to which 
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles! 
Thou flaming spirit of the earth ! which, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 
Shalt thou be mine? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchymist! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil, 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

WERNER. 

Call me Werner still ; 
You may yet know me by a loftier title, 

IDENSTEIN. 

I do believe in thee! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd, in a low garb. — 
But come, I 'il serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
As air, despite the waters : let us hence, 
I '11 show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel!) 
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again ! 
I have a foster-brother in the mart 
Of Hamburgh, skill'd in precious stones: how many 
Carats may it weigh? — Come, Werner, I will wing thee 

[Exeunt 

SCENE II. 
Stralenheim's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

FRITZ. 

All 's ready? my good lord ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I am not sleepy, 
And yet I must to bed; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber, 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will 
Unto my pillow. 

FRITZ. 

May you rest there well! 

STRALENHEIM, 

I feel, and fear, I shall. 



fritz;. 

And wherefore fear? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I know not why, and therefore do fear more, 

Because an undescribable but 't is 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed to-day, of this chamber ? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

fritz. 

Certainly, 
According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call him « Ulric.» 

STRALENHEIM. 

You think ! you supercilious slave ! what right 

Have you to tax your memory, which should be 

Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 

Of him who saved your master, as a litany 

Whose daily repetition marks your duty? 

Get hence ! « You think,» indeed ! you, who stood still 

Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I 

Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 

The roaring torrent, and restored me to 

Thank him — and despise you. «You think .'» and scarce 

Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 

More words on you. Call me betimes. 

FRITZ. 

Good night ! 
I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper. 

[The scene closes. 



SCENE III. 

The secret Passage. 
Gabor, solus. 



Four — 
Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts, on the never-merry clock : 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even v. hen 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
Wiih every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell, 
Though for a marriage feast it rings: each stroke 
Peals of a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of love deep buried without resurrection 
In the grave of possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple time in the son's ear. 

I 'm cold — 
I 'm dark — I 've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirring wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A light ! It is at distance (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a key-hole, in 
The inhibited direction; I must on, 
Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt me! Else Heaven aid mc 
To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still ! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 

52 



4 jo 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 

Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 

That corner's turn'd— so— ah! no, right! it draws 

Nearer. Here is a darksome angle— so, 

That 's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 

Iuto some greater danger than that which 

I have escaped? — no matter, 't is a new one; 

And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 

Wear more magnetic aspects : I will on, 

And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 

Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 

Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 

My stationary Will o' the wisp ! — So ! so ! 

He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 



SCENE IV. 
A Garden. 



Enter Werner. 
I could not sleep — and now the hour 's at hand ; 
All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word: 
And station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonour'd : and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! A never-dying canker-worm, 
Which all the coming splendour of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf, 
Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how, without discovery !— 
It must be done, however: and I '11 pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy; repentance must retrieve it : 
I will have nought of Stralenheim's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps ! as soundly, 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows, 
Such as when — Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 
The branches shake ; and some loose stones have fallen 
From yonder terrace 

[Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

ULRIC. 

Stop ! before 
We approach, tell me 

WERNER. 

Why look you so? 

ULRIC. 

Do I 
Behold my father, or 

WERNER. 

What ? 

ULRIC. 

An assassin ! 

WERNER. 

Insane or insolent? 



ULRIC. 

Reply, sir, as 
You prize your life, or mine ! 

WERNER. 

To what must I 
Answer? 

ULRIC. 

Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim ? 

WERNER. 

I never was as yet 
The murderer of any man. What mean you? 

ULRIC. 

Did you not this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber? and 

[Ulric pauses. 

WERNER. 

Proceed. 

ULRIC 

Died he not by your hand ? 

WERNER. 

Great God! 

ULRIC 

You are innocent, then ! my father 's innocent ! 
Embrace me! Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, yes, — 
Yet say so ! 

WERNER. 

If I e'er, in heart or mind, 
Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
The irritation of my oppress'd spirit — 
May Heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

ulric 
But Stralenheim is dead. 

WERNER. 

'T is horrible ! 't is hideous, as 't is hateful ! — 
But what have I to do with this ? 

ULRIC. 

No bolt 
Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature- 

WERNER. 

Oh my boy! what unknown woes 
Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ? 

ULRIC. 

My father, I acquit you ! 
But will the world do so? Will even the judge, 
If but you must away this instant. 

WERNER. 

No! 
I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me? 

ULRIC 

Yet 
You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

WERNER. 

Ah! 



WERNER. 



4ri 



The Hungarian ! 

ULRIC. 

He is gone ! he disappear d 
Ere sunset. 

WERNER. 

No; I hid him in that very 
Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

ULRIC. 

There I '11 find him. 

[Ulric is going. 

WERNER. 

It is too late; he had left the palace ere 

I quitted it. I found the secret pannel 

Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 

Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the silent 

And favourable moment to escape 

The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 

Dogging him y ester-even. 

ULRIC. 

You re-closed 
The pannel ? 

WERNER. 

Yes ; and not without reproach 
(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

ULRIC. 

You are sure you closed it? 

WERNER. 

Certain. 

LRIC. 

That s well; but had been better if 
You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for — (He pauses.) 

WERNER. 

Thieves ! 
Thou wouldst say : I must bear it, and deserve it; 
But not 

ULRIC. 

No, father, do not speak of this ; 
This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man ? 

WERNER. 

Could I shun it? 
A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime; a victim to my safety, 
Imploring a few hour's concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have, in such circumstances, thrust him forth. 

ULRIC. 

And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder this : you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace out the murderer, if 't is possible. 

WERNER. 

But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 
Suspicion, two new victims, in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

ULRIC. 

Who seems ! Who else 
Can be so ? 

WERNER. 

Not /, though just now you doubted — 



You, my son! — doubted 

ULRIC 

And do you doubt of him, 
The fugitive ? 

WERNER. 

Boy ! since I fell into 
The abyss of crime (though not of such crime), I, 
Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
May doubt even of the guilty 's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
Appearances ; and views a criminal 
In innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 't is dusky. 

ULRIC 

And if I do so, 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress? You must not stand the hazard. 
Away !— I '11 make all easy. Idenstein 
Will, for his own sake and his jewel's, hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight— moreover — 

WERNER. 

Fly ! and leave my name 
Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd, as poorest, 
To boar the brand of bloodshed? 

ULRIC 

Pshaw ! leave any thing 
Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles, 
For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
What name? You leave no name, since that you bear 
Is feign'd. 

WERNER. 

Most true; but still I would not have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 
Though in this most obscure abode of men : 
Besides, the search 

ULRIC 

I will provide against 
Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 
As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
Suspects, 't is but suspicion, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment, 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years, 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Here, save as 5ut7i — without lands, influence, 
Save what hath perish'd with him; few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
Is all he '11 have, or wants. If / discover 
The assassin, 't will be well — if not, believe me, 
None else, though all the full-fed train of menials 
May howl above his ashes, as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder, 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence ! hence ! I must noi hear your answer. Look! 
The stars are almost faded, and the grey 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer— Pardon me, that I 



/}.I2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am peremptory; 't is your son that speaks, 

Your long-lost, late-found son — Let 's call my mother ! 

Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 

To me; I '11 answer for the event as far 

As regards you, and that is the chief point, 

As my first duty, which shall be observed. 

We '11 meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 

Our banners shall be glorious. Think of that 

Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 

Whose youth may better battle with them — Hence ! 

And may your age be happy! — I will kiss 

My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you ! 

WERNER. 

This counsel 's safe — but is it honourable? 



ULRIC. 

To save a father is a child's chief honour. 



[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf \ near Prague. 

Enter Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 

ERIC. 

So, better times are come at last; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail, both 
A long desideratum. 

HENRICK. 

Yes, for masters, 
It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

ERIC. 

Why, 
For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

HENRICK. 

The old count loved not 
The roar of revel ; are your sure that this does ? 

ERIC. 

As yet he hath been courteous as he 's bounteous, 
And we all love him. 

HENRICK. 

His reign is as yet 
Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal ; 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

ERIC 

Pray Heaven he keep the present 
Then this brave son, Count Ulric — there 's a knight ! 
Pity the wars are o'er! 

HENPaCK. 

Why so? 

ERIC 

Look on him ! 
And answer that yourself. 

HENRICK. 

He 's very youthful, 



And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

ERIC 

That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 

HENRICK. 

But 
Perhaps a true one. 

ERJC 

Pity, as I said, 
The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride, 
Which awes but yet offends not? in the field, 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnashing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howliug hounds, the boar makes for the thicket? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ! Whose plume nods knightlier? 

BENRICK. 

No one's, I grant you : do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

ERIC 

What do you mean ? 

HENRICK. 

You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our fellow native vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
As (pauses.) 

ERIC. 

What? 

HENRICK. 

The war (you love so much) leaves living ; 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 

ERIC 

Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows, 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

HENRICK. 

And who loved Tilly ? 
Ask that at Magdebourg — or, for that matter, 
Wallenstein either : they are gone to 

ERIC. 

Best; 
But what beyond, 't is not ours to pronounce. 

HENRICK. 

I wish they had left us something of their rest : 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
fs overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave no less desolation, nay, even more 
Than the most open warfare. 

ERIC. 

But Count Ulric— 
What has all this to do with him? 

HENRICK. 

With him 1 

He might prevent it. As you say he 's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders? 

ERIC. 

You 'd better ask himself. 

HENRICK. 

I would as soon 
Ask of the lion why he laps not milk. 

ERIC 

And here he comes ! 

HENRICK. 

The devil! you '11 hold your tongue '. 



WERNER. 4 J 3 


ERIC. 


Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 


Why do you turn so pale ? 


RODOLPH. 


HEX RICK. 


Best wait for further and more sure advices. 


'T is nothing — but 


ULRIC 


De silent ! 


I mean it — and indeed it could not well 


ERIC. 


Have fallen out at a time more opposite 


I will, upon what you have said. 


To all my plans. 


HENRICK. 


RODOLPH. 


I assure you I meant nothing, a mere sport 


ft will be difficult 


Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 


To excuse your absence to the count, your father. 


He is to espouse the gentle baroness, 


ULRIC 


Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress, 


Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 


And she no doubt will soften whatsoe'er 


In High Silesia will permit and cover 


Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 


My journey. In the mean time, when we are 


Have given all natures, and most unto those 


Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 


Who were born in them, and bred up upon 


Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route : 


The knees of homicide; sprinkled, as it were, 


You know it well ? 


With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace, 


RODOLPH. 


On all that I have said ! 


As well as on that night 




When we 


Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 


ULRIC 


Good morrow, count ! 


We will not speak of that until 


ulric. 


We can repeat the same with like success ; 


Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 


And when you 've join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. 


All ready for the chase? 


[Gives a letter. 


eric 


Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 


The dogs are order'd 


To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of 


Down to the forest, and the vassals out 


My coming, though I could but spare them ill 


To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 


At this time, as my father loves to keep 


Shall I call forth your excellency's suite? 


Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 


What courser will you please to mount? 


Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 


ULRIC. 


Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 


The dun, 


RODOLPH. 


Walstein. 


I thought you loved the lady Ida? 


ERIC. 


ULRIC 


I fear he scarcely has recovered 


Why, 


The toils of Monday: t' was a noble chase, 


I do so — but it follows not from that 


You spear'd four with your own hand. 


I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 


ULRIC. 


So brief and burning, with a lady's zone, 


True, good Eric, 


Although 't were that of Venus;— but I love her. 


I had forgotten — let it be the grey, then, 


As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 


Old Ziska: he has not been out this fortnight. 


RODOLPH. 


ERIC. 


And constantly ? 


He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 


ULRIC 


Of your immediate retainers shall 


I think so ; for I love 


Escort you? 


Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 


ULRIC 


Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 


I leave that to Weilburgh, our 


We have to do ere long. Speed! speed', good Rodolph ! 


Master of the horse. [Exit Eric 


RODOLPH. 


Rodolph ! 


On my return, however, I shall find 


RODOLPH. 


The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ! 


My lord i 


ULRIC 


ULRIC 


Perhaps: my father wishes it, and sooth, 


The news 


'T is no bad policy; this union with 


Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Henrick.) 


The last bud of the rival branch at once 


How now, Henrick, why 


Unites the future and destroys the past. 


Loiter you here? 


RODOLPH. 


HENRICK. 


Adieu! 


For your commands, my lord. 


ULRIC 


ULRIC 


Yet hold — we had better keep together 


Go to my father, and present my duty, 


Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 


And learn if he would aught with me before 


And do as I have said. 


I mount. [Exit Henrick. 


RODOLPH. 


Rodolph, our friends have had a check 


I will. But to 


Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 


Return — 't was a most kind act in the count, 


T is rumour'd that the column sent against them 


Your father, to send up to Konigsberg 



4 J 4 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


For this fair orphan of the baron, and 


Did I not echo your own wish ? 


To hail her as his daughter. 


IDA. 


ULRIC. 


Yes, Ulric, 


Wondrous kind ! 


But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 


Especially as little kindness till 


And scarce knew what I said; but let me be 


Then grew between them. 


Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 


RODOLPH. 


I still to you am something. 


The late baron died 


ULRIC. 


Of a fever, did he not? 


You shall be 


ULRIC. 


All— all 


How should I know ? 


IDA. 


RODOLPH. 


And you to me are so already; 


I 've heard it whispered there was something strange 


But I can wait. 


About his death — and even the place of it 


ULRIC. 


Is scarcely known. 


Dear Ida ! 


ULRIC. 


IDA. 


Some obscure village on 


Call me Ida, 


The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 


Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 


RODOLPH. 


Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 


He 


[She pauses. 


Has left no testament — no farewell words ! 


ULRIC. 


ULRIC. 


You have mine — you have me. 


I am neither confessor nor notary, 


IDA. 


So cannot say. 


Dear Ulric ! how I wish 


RODOLPH. 


My father could but view our happiness, 


Ah ! here's the lady Ida. 


Which wants but this ! 


Enter Ida Stralenheim. 


ULRIC. 


ulric. 


Indeed ! 


You are early, my sweet cousin ! 


IDA. 


IDA. 


You would have loved him, 


Not too early, 


He you ; for the brave ever love each other ; 


Dear Ulric, if 1 do not interrupt you. 


His manner was a little cold, his spirit 


Why do you call me « cousin?* 


Proud (as is birth's prerogative), but under 


ulric (smiling). 


This grave exterior : would you had known each other ! 


Are we not so ? 


Had such as you been near him on his journey, 


IDA. 


He had not died without a friend to soothe 


Yes, but 1 do not like the name ; methinks 


His last and lonely moments. 


It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 


ULRIC. 


Our pedigree, and only weighed our blood. 


Who says thatl 


ulric (starting). 


IDA. 


Blood! 


What? 


IDA. 


ULRIC. 


Why does yours start from your cheeks 7 


That he died alone. 


ULRIC 


IDA. 


Ay! doth it? 


The general rumour, 


IDA. 


And disappearance of his servants, who 


It doth — but no ! it rushes like a torrent 


Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 


Even to your brow again. 


Which swept them all away. 


ulric (recovering himself). 


ULRIC. 


And if it fled, 


If they were near him, 


It only was because your presence sent it 


He could not die neglected or alone. 


Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin ! 


IDA. 


IDA. 


Alas! what is a menial to a death-bed, 


« Cousin » again ! 


When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 


ULRIC. 


It loves? — they say he died of a fever. 

ULRIC. 


Nay, then I '11 call you sister. 


IDA. 


Say? 


I like that name still worse — would we had ne'er 


It was so. 


Been aught of kindred ! 


IDA. 


ulric (gloomily). 


I sometimes dream otherwise. 


Would we never had ! 


ULRIC. 


IDA. 


All dreams are false. 


Heaven! and can you wish that? 


IDA. 


ULRIC. 


And yet I see him, as 


Dearest Ida ! 


I see you. 







WERNER. 4i5 


ULRIC. 


IDA. 


Where ? 


Except his prey, I hope. 


IDA. 


ULRIC 


In sleep — I see him lie 


Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 


Pale, bleeding, and a man -with a raised knife 


Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 


Beside him. 


IDA. 


ULRIC. 


And will you not stay, then? You shall not go ! 


But do you not see his facel 


Come! I will sing to you. 


ida (looking at him). 


ULRIC. 


No! oh, my God! do you? 


Ida, you scarcely 


ULRIC. 


Will make a soldier's wife. 


Why do you ask? 


IDA. 


IDA. 


I do not wish 


Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 


To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 


ulric (agitatedly). 


And you will live in peace on your domains. 


Ida, this is mere childishness ; your weakness 




Infects me, to my shame; but as all feelings 


Enter Werner, as Count Siegendorf. 


Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 




Prithee, sweet child, change— 


ULRIC 


IDA. 


My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 


Child, indeed ! I have 


With such brief greeting.— You have heard our bugle; 


Full fifteen summers ! \A bugle sounds. 


The vassals wait. 


RODOLPH. 


SIEGENDORF. 


Hark, my lord, the bugle! 


So let them — you forget 


IDA (peevishly to rodolph). 


To-morrow is the appointed festival 


Why need you tell him that? Can he not hear it 


In Prague, for peace restored. You are apt to follow 


Without your echo? 


The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 


RODOLPH. 


Permit you to return to-day, or if 


Pardon me, fair baroness ! 


Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 


IDA. 


The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 


I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 


ULRIC 


By aiding me in my dissuasion of 


You, count, 


Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 


Will well supply the place of both— I am not 


RODOLPH. 


A lover of these pageantries. 


You will not, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Lady, need aid of mine. 


No, Ulric; 


ULRIC 


It were not well that you alone of all 


I must not now 


Our young nobility 


Forego it. 


IDA. 


IDA. 


And far the noblest 


But you shall ! 


In aspect and demeanour. 


ULRIC. 


SIEGENDORF (to IDa). 


Shall-' 


True, dear child, 


IDA. 


Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel — 


Yes, or be 


But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 


No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 


So lately reinstated in our honours. 


In this, for this one day; the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

ULRIC. 

You jest. 


Believe me, 't would be mark'd in any house, 


But most in ours, that one should be found wanting 


At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 


Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 


It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 


IDA. 


On us for thanksgiving; first, for our country, 
And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 


Indeed I do not : ask of Rodolph. 


RODOLPH. 


ulric (aside). 


Truly, 


Devout, too! Well, sir, I obey at once. 


My lord, within this quarter of an hour 


[Then aloud to a servant. 


You have changed more than I e'er saw you change 


Ludwig, dismiss the train without! 


In years. 


[Exit Ludwig. 


ULRIC 


IDA. 


T is nothing; but if 't were, the air 


And so 


Would soon restore me. I'm the true cameleon, 


You yield at once to him, what I for hours 


And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 


Might supplicate in vain. 


In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 


siegendorf (smiling). 


My spirit — I 'm a forester, and breather 


You are not jealous 


Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 


Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 


The eagle loves. 


Would sanction disobedience against all 
1 



4i6 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Except thyself? But fear not, thou shalt rule him 


SIEGENDORF. 


Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 


I talk not of his birth, 


IDA. 


But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 


But I should like to govern now. 


ULRIC 


SIEGENDORF. 


So they will do of most men. Even the monarch 


You shall, 


Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 


Your harp; which, by the way, awaits you with 


The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 


The countess in her chamber. She complains 


Great and ungrateful. 


That you are a sad truant to your music : 


SIEGENDORF. 


She attends you. 


If I must be plain, 


IDA. 


The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph ; 


Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 


They say he is leagued with the «black bands» who still 


Ulric, you '11 come and hear me ? 


Ravage the frontier. 


ULRI 


ULRIC. 


By and by. 


And will you believe 


IDA. 


The world ? 


Be sure I '11 sound it better than your bugles; 


SIEGENDORF. 


Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 


In this case — yes. 


I '11 play you King Gustavus' march. 


ULRIC 


ULRIC. 


In any case, 


And why not 


I thought you knew it better than to take 


Old Tilly's? 


An accusation for a sentence. 


IDA. 


SIEGENDORF. 


Not that monster's! I should think 


Son! 


My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music, 


I understand you : you refer to but 


Could aught of his sound on it;— but come quickly; 


My destiny has so involved about me 


Your mother will be eager to receive you. 


Her spider web, that I can only flutter 


[Exitlox. 


Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led me; 


Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 


Twenty long years of misery and famine 


ULRIC. 


Ouench'dthem not — twenty thousand more, perchance, 


My time 's your vassal. — [Aside to Rodolph. 


Hereafter (or even here in moments which 


Rodolph, hence ! and do 


Might date for years, did anguish make the dial), 


As I directed; and by his best speed 


May not obliterate or expiate 


And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 


The madness and dishonour of an instant. 


RODOLPH. 


Ulric, be warn'd by a father! — I was not 


Count Siegendorf, command you aught ? I am bound 


By mine, and vou behold me ! 


Upon a journey past the frontier, 


ULRIC. 


SIEGENDORF {starts). 


I behold 


Ah!— 


The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 


Where ? on what frontier ? 


Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 


RODOLPH. 


By those he rules, and those he ranks with. 


The Silesian, on 


SIEGENDORF. 


My way — [aside to Ulric) Where shall I say? 


Ah! 


ulric {aside to rodolph). 


Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 


To Hamburgh. 


For thee? Beloved, when thou lovest me not! 


{Aside to himself.) That 


All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 


Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 


Cut if my son's is cold! 


His further inquisition. 


ULRIC. 


RODOLPH. 


Who dare say that? 


Count, to Hamburgh. 


SIEGENDORF. 


siegendorf {agitated). 


None else but I, who see it — feel it — keener 


Hamburgh ! no, I have nought to do there, nor 


Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 


Am aught connected with that city. Then 


Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 


God speed you ! 


The wound. 


RODOLPH. 


ULRIC 


Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 


You err. My nature is not given 


[Exit Rodolph. 


To outward fondling; how should it be so, 


SIEGENDORF. 


After twelve years' divorcement from my parents? 


Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 


SIEGENDORF. 


One of those strange companions, whom I fain 


And did not I too pass those twelve torn years 


Would reason with you on. 


Iu a like absence? But 't is vain to urge you — 


ULRIC. 


Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 


My lord, he is 


Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 


Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 


That these young violent nobles of high name, 


In Saxony. 


But dark deeds (ay, the darkest, if all rumour 



WERNER. 



Reports be true), with whom thou consortest, 

Will lead thee 

ULRiC (impatiently). 
I '11 be led by no man. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Nor 
Be leader of such, I would hope: at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, 1 have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more, 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

L'LRIC 

I have said 
I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

He says too much in saying this. It is not 

The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 

Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 

Or act so carelessly, in that which is 

The bloom or blight of all men's happiness 

(For glory's pillow is but restless if 

Love lay not down his cheek there) : some strong bias. 

Some master fiend is in thy service, to 

Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 

And makes his every thought subservient; else 

Thou'dst say at once, «I love young Ida, and 

Will wed her,» or, « I love her not, and all 

The powers of earth shall never make me.» — So 

Would I have answer'd. 

ULRIC. 

Sir, you wed for love. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

ULRIC. 

Which miseries 
Had never been but for this love-match. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Still 

Against your age and nature! who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now? 

ULRIC 

Did you not warn me 
Against your own example ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Boyish sophist! 
In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida? 

ULRIC. 

What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her? 

SIEGENDORF. 

As far 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She 's young — all-beautiful — adores you — is 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which philosophy might barter wisdom; 
And giving so much happiness deserves 
A little in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to break, 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
According to the Orient tale. She is 



And, 



/wil 



ULRIC. 

The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe! 
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless; though, to say truth, 
Just now I am not violently transported 
In favour of such unions. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But she loves you. 

ULRIC. 

And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas! Love never did so. 

ULRIC. 

Then 't is time 
He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But you consent ? 

ULRIC. 

I did and do. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Then fix the day. 

ULRIC. 

'T is usual, 
certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

SIEGENDORF. 

engage for her. 

ULRIC. 

So will not / 
For any woman; and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I '11 give mine. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But 't is your oflice 
To woo. 

ULRIC. 

Count, 'tis a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother, 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is — 
What would you have? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
And I obey; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles, 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminie, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle : 
What can a son or man do more? [Exit Ulric. 

SIEGENDORF (solus). 

Too much! — 
Too much of duty and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not : 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But how? obedient, but with coldness; duteous 
In my sight, but with carelessness; mysterious, 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 
And where — none know — in league with the most riotous 
Of our young nobles: though, to do him justice, 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures; 
Yet there 's some tie between them which I cannot 

53 



4i8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Unravel. They look up to him— consult him — 
Throng round him as a leader : hut -with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah! can I hope it 
After — what ! doth my fathers curse descend 
Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood, or — oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee? 'T was not 
Our fault, nor is our sin: thou wert our foe, 
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening! 
And only took — accursed gold! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
Thou villanous gold! and thy dead master's doom, 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish' d her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant, 

ATTENDANT. 

The abbot, if it please 
Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendant. 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Welcome, welcome, holy father! 
And may thy prayer be heard! — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Have the first claim to all 
The prayers of our community. Our convent, 
Ereeted by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes, good father ; 
Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

To the endless home of unbelievers, 
Where there is everlasting wail and woe, 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

True, father : and to avert those pangs from one, 
Who, though of our most faultless, holy church, 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
Which smoothe the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[Siegendorf offers the gold which he had taken 
from Stralenheim. 

prior albert. 
Count, if I 
Receive it, 't is because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 



The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours 
Which has of old endow'd it; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said? 

siegendorf (faltering). 

For— for — the dead. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

His name? 

siegendorf. 
'T is from a soul, and not a name, 
I would avert perdition. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

I meant not 
To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest, 

SIEGENDORF. 

Secret! I have none: but, father, he who 's gone 
Might have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

A proper deed 
In the behalf of our departed friends. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But he, who 's gone, was not my friend, but foe, 
The deadliest and the staunchest. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Better still! 
To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 
Of our dead enemies, is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But I did not 
Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. 1 do not love him now, 
But 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Best of all! for this is pure religion! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion! — with 
Your own gold too! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father, 't is not my gold. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Whose then? you said it was no legacy. 

SIEGENDORF. 

No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
T is yours, or theirs. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Is there no blood upon it ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No : but there 's worse than blood — eternal shame! 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Did he who own'd it die in his bed? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas! 
He did. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death, 

SIEGENDORF. 

His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 



WERNER. 



PRIOR ALBERT. 

Yoa said he died in his bed, not battle? 

SIEGENDORF. 

He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the dark, 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat!— ay! you may look upon me! 
I am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point, 
As I can one day God's. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Nor did he die 
By means, or men, or instrument of yours? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No ! by the God who sees and strikes! 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Nor know you 
Who slew him? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I could only guess at one, 
And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge, 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Then you are free from guilt. 

Siegendorf (eagerly). 

Oh! am I? — say. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

You have said so, and know best. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father ! I have spoken 
The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole: 
Yet say I am not guilty! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
Though by the power who abhorreth human blood, 
I did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps should — (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attacks of over-potent foes) ; 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Father! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

I will. 
Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But calmness is not 
Always the attribute of innocence : 
I feel it is not. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

But it will be so, 
When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Bemember the great festival to-morrow, 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
As well as your brave son ; and smoothe your aspect ; 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood, you shed not, rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

SCENE 1. 

A large and magnificent Gothic Hall in the Castle of 
Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Banners, and 
Arms of tha t Fa mily. 

Enter Arnheim and Meister, Attendants of 'Count 
Siegendorf. 

ARNHEIM. 

Be quick! the count will soon return : the ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 

MEISTER. 

1 have, in all directions, over Prague, 

As far as the man's dress and figure could 

Dy your description track him. The devil take 

These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 

(If such there be) must fall to the spectators; 

I 'm sure none doth to us, who make the show. 

ARNHEiM. 

Go to! my lady countess comes. 

MEISTER. 

I 'd rather 
Bide a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
In these dull pageantries. 

ARNHEIM. 

Be gone, and rail 
Within. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf andlox 
Stralenheim. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 

IDA. 

How can you say so? Never have I dreamt 

Of aught so beautiful ! The flowers, the boughs, 

The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 

The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces. 

The coursers, and the incense, and the sun, 

Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the tombs, 

Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, 

Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 

Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 

Boiling on high like an harmonious thunder; 

The white robes, and the lifted eyes; the world 

At peace! and all at peace with one another! 

Oh, my sweet mother! [Embracing Josephine. 

JOSEPHINE. 

My beloved child ! 
For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

IDA. 

Oh! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

It does, my love; and never may it throb 
With aught more bitter ! 

IDA. 

Never shall it do so ! 
How should it? What should make us grieve? I hate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter, Ida. 



420 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 


Poor child ! 


IDA. 


IDA. 


And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 


Do you pity me? 


Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 


JOSEPHINE. 


Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 


No ; I but envy, 


Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeunt. 


And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 


Enter Count Siegendorf in full dress, from the 
solemnity, and Ludwig. 


More general than another. 


IDA. 


siegendorf. 


I '11 not hear 


Is he not found? 


A word against a world which still contains 


LUDWIG. 


You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 


Strict search is making every where; and if 


Aught like him? How he tower' d amongst them all! 


The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 


How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 


SIEGENDORF. 


Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 


Where 's Ulric ? 


Than before all the rest, and where he trod 


LUDWIG. 


I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 


He rode round the other way, 


Will wither. 


With some young nobles; but he left them soon; 


JOSEPHINE. 


And, if I err not, not a minute since 


You will spoil him, little flatterer ! 


I heard his excellency, with his train, 


If he should hear you. 


Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 


IDA. 

But he never will. 


Enter Ulric splendidly dressed. 


I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

JOSEPHINE. 


SIEGENDORF (to LUDWIG). 


See they cease not 


Why so? he loves you well. 

IDA. 


Their quest of him I have described. [Exit ludwig. 
Oh ! Ulric, 


But I can never 


How have I long'd for thee ! 


Shape my thoughts o/him into words to him. 


ULRIC. 


Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 


Your wish is granted — 


JOSEPHINE. 


Behold me ! 


How so ? 


SIEGENDORF. 


IDA. 


I have seen the murderer. 


A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 


ULRIC. 


Yet he says nothing. 


Whom? Where? 


JOSEPHINE. 


SIEGENDORF. 


It is nothing: all men, 


The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 


Especially in these dark troublous times, 


ULRIC. 


Have much to think of. 


You dream. 


IDA. 


SIEGENDORF. 


ljut I cannot think 


I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 


Of aught save him. 


Heard him ! He dared to utter even my name. 


JOSEPHINE. 


ULRIC. 


Yet there are other men, 


What name? 


In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance, 


SIEGENDORF. 


The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 


Werner! 'twas mine. 


His eyes from yours to-day. 


ULRIC. 


IDA. 


It must be so 


I did not see him, 


No more : forget it. 


But Ulric. Did you not see, at the moment 


SIEGENDORF. 


When all knelt, and I wept? and yet methought 


Never! never! all 


Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 


My destinies were woven in that name : 


warm, 


It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 


I saw him smiling on me. 


But it may lead me there. 


JOSEPHINE. 


ULRIC. 


I could not 


To the point — the Hungarian 1 


See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 


SIEGENDORF. 


Together with the people's. 


Listen !— The church was throng'd ; the hymn was rais'd ! 


IDA. 


« Te Deum» peal'd from nations, rather than 


I thought too 


From choirs, in one great cry of « God be praised» 


Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 


For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years, 


JOSEPHINE. 


Each bloodier than the former ; I arose, 


Come, 


With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 


Let us retire; they will he here anon 


Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 


Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 


Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 







WERNER. 4 21 


Saw, like a flash of lightning (for I saw 


What shall we do with him ? 


A moment, and no more), what struck me sightless 


SIEGENDORF. 


To all else — the Hungarian's face : I grew 


I know not that. 


Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 


ULRIC. 


Which curl'd about my senses, and again 


Then wherefore seek? 


Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 


SIEGENDORF. 


Was over, and we marchd back in procession. 


Because I cannot rest 


ULRIC. 


Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 


Continue. 


And ours, seem intertwisted; nor can be 


SIEGENDORF. 


Unravell'd, till 


When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge, 
The joyous crowd above, the numberless 


Enter an Attendant. 


Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 


ATTENDANT. 


Which shot along the glancing tide below, 


A stranger, to wait on 


The decorated street, the long array, 


Your excellency. 


The clashing music, and the thundering 


SIEGENDORF. 


Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 


Who? 


A long and loud farewell to its great doings, 


ATTENDANT. 


The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round, 


He gave no name. 


The roar of rushing thousands, all — all could not 


SIEGENDORF. 


Chase this man from my mind; although my senses 


Admit him, ne'ertheless. 


^"o longer held him palpable. 


[The Attendant introduces Gabor, and after- 


ULRIC. 


wards exit. 


You saw him 


Ah! 


No more, then? 


GABOR. 


SIEGENDORF. 


'T is, then, Werner! 


I look'd, as a dying soldier 


Siegendorf (haughtily). 
The same you knew, sir, by that name; and you? 
gabor (looking round). 


Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 


But still I saw him not ; but in his stead — 


ULRIC. 


I recognise you both; father and son, 


What in his stead ? 


It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 


My eye for ever fell 


SIEGENDORF. 


Upon your dancing crest; the loftiest, 


I have sought you, and have found you; you are charged 

(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 

A crime as [He pauses. 

GABOR. 


As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 


It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 


Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 


ULRIC. 


Give it utterance, and then 


What 's this to the Hungarian? 


I '11 meet the consequences. 


SIEGENDORF. 


SIEGENDORF. 


Much, for I 


You shall do so — 


Had almost then forgot him in my son, 


Unless 


When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 


GABOR. 


The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 


First, who accuses me? 


Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Distinct and keener far upon my ear 


All things, 


Than the late cannon's volume, this word — « Werner .'» 


If not all men : the universal rumour — 


ULRIC. 


My own presence on the spot — the place — the time — 


Utter'd by 


And every speck of circumstance unite 


SIEGENDORF. 


To fix the blot on you. 

GABOR. 


Him! I turn'd— and saw — and fell. 


ULRIC. 


And on me only 1 . 


And wherefore? Were you seen? 


Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 


The officious care 


SIEGENDORF. 


Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 


Trifling villain ! 


Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause; 


Who play'st with thine own guilt! Of all that breathe 


You, too, were too remote in the procession 


Thou best dost know the innocence of him 


(The old nobles being divided from their children) 


'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slander. 


To aid me. 


But I will talk no further with a wretch, 


ULRIC. 


Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 


But I '11 aid you now. 


And without quibbling, to my charge. 


SIEGENDORF. 


GABOR. 


In what ? 


T is false ! 


ULRIC. 


SIEGENDORF. 


In searching for this man, or when he s found, 


Who says so ? 



4^2 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


GABOR. 


SIEGENDORF. 


I. 


These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 


SIEGENDORF. 


To me than to my son. 


And how disprove it? 


GABOR. 


GABOR. 


I can't help that; 


% 


But let the consequence alight on him 


The presence of the murderer. 


Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 


SIEGENDORF. 


I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 


Name him ! 


I know you innocent, and deem you just. 


GABOR. 


But ere I can proceed — Dare you protect me? — 


He 


Dare you command me? 


May have more names than one, Your lordship had so 


[SiEGEtivoRF first looks at the Hungarian, and then 


Once on a time. 


at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre and is 


SIEGENDORF. 


drawing lines with it on the floor — still in its 


If you mean me, I dare 


sheath. 


Your utmost. 


ulric (looks at his father and says). 


GABOR. 


Let the man go on ! 


You may do so, and in safety : 


GABOR. 


I know the assassin. 


I am unarm'd, count — bid your son lay down 


SIEGENDORF. 


His sabre. 


Where is he? 


ulric (offers it to him contemptuously). 


gabor (pointing to ulric). 


Take it. 


Beside you ! 


GABOR. 


[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor; Siegen- 


No, sir; 't is enough 
That we are both unarm'd — I would not chuse 


dorf interposes. 


To wear a steel w hich may be stain'd with more 


SIEGENDORF. 


Blood than came there in battle. 


Liar and fiend! but you shall not be slain; 


ulric (casts the sabre from him in contempt). 


These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 


It — or some 


[He turns to Ulric. 


Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 


Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 


Once, when disarm'd and at my mercy. 


Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 


GABOR. 


I could not deem it earth-born : but, be calm; 


True— 


It will refute itself. But touch him not. 


I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 


[Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 


Your own especial purpose — to sustain 


GABOR. 


An ignominy not my own. 


Look at him, count, and then hear me. 


ULRIC. 


SIEGENDORF. 


Proceed. 


(First to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric). 


The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 


I hear thee. 


But is it of my father to hear further? 


My God! you look 


[To Siegendorf. 


ULRIC 


siegendorf (takes his son by the hand). 


How? 


My son! I know mine own innocence — and doubt not 


SIEGENDORF. 


Of yours — but I have promised this man patience; 


As on that dread night 


Let him continue. 


When we met in the garden. 


GABOR. 


ulric (composes himself). 


I will not detain you 


It is nothing. 


By speaking of myself much ; I began 


GABOR. 


Life early — and am what the world has made me. 


Count, you are bound to hear me. I came hither 


At Frankfort, on the Oder, where I pass'd 


Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 


A winter in obscurity, it was 


Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 


My chance at several places of resort 


To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 


(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 


Of senators and princes ; but you have call'd me, 


To hear related a strange circumstance, 


And we have met. 


In February last. A martial force, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Sent by the state, had, after strong resistance, 


Go on, sir. 


Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 


GABOR. 


Marauders from the hostile camp. — They proved, 


Ere I do so, 


However, not to be so — but banditti, 


Allow me to inquire who profited 


Whom either accident or enterprise 


By Stralenheim's death? Was 't I — as poor as ever; 


Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 


And poorer by suspicion on my name. 


Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 


The baron lost in that last outrage neither 


Many amongst them were imported of 


Jewels nor gold; his life alone was sought — 


High rank — and martial law r slept for a time. 


A life which stood between the claims of others 


At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 


To honours and estates, scarce less than princely. 


And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 







WERNER. 



423 



Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate 
I know no more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And what is this to Ulric ? 

GABOR. 

Amongst them there was said to be one man 

Of wonderful endowments: — birth and fortune, 

Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman, 

And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 

His by the public rumour; and his sway, 

Not only over his associates but 

His judges, -was attributed to witchcraft, 

Such was his influence: — I have no great faith 

In anv magic save that of the mine — 

I therefore deem'd him -wealthy. — But my soul 

Was roused with various feelings to seek out 

This prodigv, if only to behold him. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And did you so? 

GABOR. 

You 11 hear. Chance favour' d me : 
A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions, where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
The moment my eye met his — I exclaim'd 
« This is the man !» though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly: 
I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
Stature and bearing — and amidst them all, 
'Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

ulric (smiling). 

The tale sounds well. 

GABOR. 

And may sound better. — He appear' d to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on -whom 
The fates of others oft depend : besides, 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
Was to be fix'd by him — There I was wrong. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And may not be right now. 

GABOR. 

I follow'd him — 
Solicited his notice — and obtain' d it — 
Though not his friendship: — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — we left it 
Together — and together we arrived 
In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you hear further ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I must do so — 
Or I have heard too much. 

GABOR. 

I saw in you 
A man above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions — 't was that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear' d in height of mind, 
In the most high of worldly rank; you were 
Poor — even to all save ra^s — I would have shared 



My purse, though slender, with you— you refused it. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it? 

GABOR. 

Still you owe me something, 
Though not for that — and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety— when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That /had robb'd him. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I conceal'd you — I 
Whom, and whose house, you arraign, reviving viper! 

GABOR. 

I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count! have made yourself accuser — judge — 
lour hail *s my court, your heart is mv tribunal. 
Be just, and J '11 be merciful. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You merciful ! 
You! base calumniator ! 

GAEOR. 

I. 'T will rest 
With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me — 
In secret passages known to yourself, 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night. 
Weary -with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way — I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light. 
I follow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where, 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through, and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

SIEGENDORF. 

Asleep ! And yet 
You slew him — wretch ! 

GABOR. 

He was already slain, 
And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else! You did not see the 

[lie pauses from agitation. 

GABOR. 

No; 
He, whom you dare not name — nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect — was not then in 
The chamber. 

SIEGENDORF (to ULRIC). 

Then, my boy! thou art guiltless still — 
Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much! 

GABOR. 

Be patient! I can not 
Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
Beneath Ids chief inspection — on the morn 
Which led to this same night : ho-w he had enter' d 
He best knows — but within an antechamber, 
The door of which was half ajar — I saw 
A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 



4H 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh! God of Fathers ! 

GABOR. 

I beheld his features 
As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's! 
Distinct — as I beheld them — though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
When I first charged him with the crime : — so lately. 

SIEGENDORF. 

This is so 

GABOR (interrupting him). 

Nay — but hear me to the end! 
Now you must do so.— I conceived myself 
Betray' d by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt; and my first thought 
Was vengeauce : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
(Having left my sword without), I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turn'd, and fled— i' the dark : chance, rather than 
Skill, made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept — if I 
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief sleep — 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke — 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out ! 

GABOR. 

'T is not my fault, 
If I have read it. — Well! I fled and hid me. 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner iti Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me, and have found me : now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

siegendorf (after a pause). 

Indeed ! 

GABOR. 

Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Neither— I was weighing 
The value of your secret. 

GABOR. 

You shall know it 
At once — when you were poor, and I, though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I offer'd you 
My purse — you would not share it: — I '11 be franker 
With you; you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial powers — you understand me? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes.— 

GABOR. 

Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce true: 
'T is no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present; you shall aid me; 
I would have aided you — and also have 



Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation ! 

gabor (casts Jiis eyes on ulric, tvho is leaning aaainst 
a pillar.) 
If I should do so? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opens a turret door. 

gabor (hesitatingly.) 
This is the second safe asylum 
You have offer'd me. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And was not the first so? 

GABOR. 

I know not that even now — but will approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone — and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim — there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I will be so — 
My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

GABOR. 

I '11 take it for so much. 

siegendorf (points to ulric's sahre, still upon the 
ground). 

Take also that — 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

gabor (takes up the sabre). 
I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[Gabor goes into the turret, which Siegendorf closes. 
siegendorf (advances to ulric). 

Now, Count Ulric! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou? 

ULRIC. 

His tale is true. 

SIEGENDORF. 

True, monster! 

ULRIC 

Most true, father ; 
And you did well to listen to it: what 
We know we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ay, with half of my domains; 
And -with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villany. 

ULRIC. 

It is no time 
For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

How so? 

ULRIC. 

As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
As never to have hit on this before? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? or had the prince's household been 



WERNER. 



4^5 



Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
Have loiterd on the way? Or could you, Werner, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have fled — unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion -woke ! I sought and fathom'd you — 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Parricide ! no less 
Than common stahber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ! 

ULRIC. 

Father, do not raise 
The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured 
Could / be calm ! Think you that 1 have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling? you 
Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
For whom or what else did you ever teach it ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh ! my dead father's curse ! 't is working now. 

ULRIC. 

Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down ! 

Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 

To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 

Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 

Yet hear me still! — If you condemn me, yet 

Piemember who hath taught me once too often 

To listen to him! Who proclaim'd to me 

That there were crimes made venial by the occasion? 

That passion was our nature? that the goods 

Of heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 

Who show'd me his humanity secured 

By his nerves only? Who deprived me of 

All power to vindicate myself and race 

In open day? By his disgrace which stamp'd 

(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 

Himself — a felons brand ! The man who is 

At once both warm and weak, invites to deeds 

He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 

That I should act what you could think ? We have done 

With right or wrong and now must only ponder 

Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 

Whose life I saved, from impulse, as, unknown, 

I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew, 

Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 

Was a rock in our way, which I cut through, 

As doth the holt, because it stood between us 

And our destination — but not idly. 

As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 

His life; when due, I but resumed the debt. 

He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf, wherein 

I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 

The torch — you show'd the path : now trace me that 

Of safety — or let me ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I have done with life ! 

ULRIC. 

Let us have done with that which cankers life — 

Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 

Of things which cannot be undone. We have 



No more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 

And have within these very walls men who 

(Although you know them not) dare venture all things. 

You stand high with the slate ; what passes here 

Will not excite her too great curiosity: 

Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 

Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me : 

We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 

SIEGENDORF (sollls). 

Am I awake? are these my father's halls ? 

And you — my son? My son ! mine! who have ever 

Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 

Am plunged into the deepest hell of both! 

I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 

The Hungarian's! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 

It seems : I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool 1 

Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 

(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 

Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 

To be the father of fresh crimes — no less 

Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

[Exit into the turret, closing the door after him. 



SCEN E II. 

The interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siegendorf. 

gabor. 



Who calls 



SIEGENDORF. 

I — Siegendorf! Take these, and fly ! 
Lose not a moment! 

Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, and tlirusts 
then into Gabor' s hand. 

GABOR. 

What am I to do 
With these? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Whate'er you will: sell them, or hoard, 
And prosper; but delay not — or you are lost ! 

GABOR. 

You pledged your honour for my safety ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

And 
Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly! 
Or you will be slain by 

GABOR. 

Is it even so ? 
Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
You sought this fatal interview! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I did. 
Let it not be more fatal still: — Begone! 

GABOR. 

By the same path I enter'd? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes ; that 's safe still : 
But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

54 



26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I know too well — 
And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Farewell ! . [Exit Gabor- 

siegendorf (solus and listening). 
He hath clear' d the staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe! 

Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower in a drooping posture. 

i Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapons 
drawn. 

ULRIC. 

j Dispatch ! — he 's there ! 

LUDWIG. 

The count, my lord ! 
ulric {recognising siegendorf). 

You here, sir ! 
siegendorf. 
Yes : if you want another victim, strike ! 

ulric [seeing him stript of his jewels). 
Where is the ruffian who hath plunder'd you? 
Vassals, dispatch in search of him ! You see 
'T was as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom ! 
Away ! I '11 follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric 
What 's this ? 
Where is the villain ? 

siegendorf. 

There are tvjo, sir ; which 
Are you in quest of ? 

ULRIC. 

Let us hear no more 
Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

siegendorf. 
He 's gone. 

ULRIC 

With your connivance ? 
siegendorf. 

With 
My fullest, freest aid. 

ulric 
Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going. 
siegendorf. 
Stop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me ? 

ulric 
What ! remain to be 
Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

siegendorf. 

I never had one ; 
And would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 



Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 

ulric 
Leave that unto me. 
I am not alone, nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains : a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, heards, and hands, are mine. 
siegendorf. 

The foresters ! 
With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frank- 
fort? 

ulric. 
Yes— men— Who are worthy of the name ! Go tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague : 
Their feast of peace was early for the times. 
There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
With Wallenstein ! 

Enter Josephine and Ida. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What is 't we hear? My Siegendorf! 
Thank Heaven, I see you safe ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Safe! 

IDA. 

Yes, dear father ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Gall me by that worst name of parent. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What 
Means my good lord? 

SIEGENDORF. 

That you have given birth 
To a demon ! 

IDA (taking ulric's hand). 
Who shall dare say this of Ulric ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hand. 

IDA (stooping to kiss it). 
I 'd kiss it off, though it were mine ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

It is so ! 

ULRIC 

Away! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric 

IDA. 

Oh, great God ! 
And I have loved this man ! 

[Ida falls senseless. — Josephine stands speechless 
with horror. 

SIEGENDORF. 

The wretch hath slain 
Them both ! my Josephine ! we are now alone ! 
Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past ! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



4.27 



A DRAMA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This production is founded partly on the story of a 
Novel, called « The Three Brothers," published many 
years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's «Wood Demon » 
was also taken— and partly on the « Faust» of the great 
Goethe. The present publication contains the first two 
Parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. The 
rest may perhaps appear hereafter. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



I love, or at the least, I loved you : nothing, 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me — do not kill me. 

BERTHA. 

Yes — I nursed thee 
Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. Cut get hence, 
And gather wood ! 

ARNOLD. 

I will : but when I bring it, 
Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 



MEN. 
Stranger, afterwards Cesar. 
Arnold. 
Bourbon. 
Philibert. 
Cellini. 

WOMEN. 
Bertha. 
Olimpia. 



Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Peasants, etc 



DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 



PART I. 

SCENE I.— A Forest. 
Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 

BERTHA. 

Out, hunchback ! 

ARNOLD. 

I was born so, mother ! 

BERTHA. 

Out! 

Thou incubus ! thou nightmare ! of seven sons 
The sole abortion ! 

ARNOLD. 

Would that I had been so, 
And never seen the light ! 

bertha. 
I would so too ! 
But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy best. 
That back of thine may bear its burthen; t is 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

ARNOLD. 

Tt bears its burthen;— but, my heart! will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 



j So beautiful and lusty, and as free 

As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
, Our milk has been the same. 
bertha. 

As is the hedgehog's, 
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren! call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 

[Exit Bertha. 

ARNOLD (sollis). 

Oh mother! She is gone, and I must do 

Her bidding; — wearily but willingly 

I would fulfil it, could I only hope 

A kind word in return. What shall I do? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood : in doing tliis he 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labour for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home. — What home? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too, 
Like them? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
j Would rise a snake to sting them as they have stung me ! 
j Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
j Would aid his likeness! If I must partake 
j His form, why not his power? Is it because 
I have not his will too? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring and stoops to wash 
his hand; lie starts back. 
They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch 
j That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
j My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
I Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
I From drinking therein. [He pauses. 

And shall I live on, 



ill 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A burthen to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood, 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form— from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground, ivith 
the point upwards. 

Now 't is set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
Hut let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The falling leaves my monument ; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife 



STRANGER. 

Unless you keep company 
! With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
' Society), you can't tell how he approaches; 
l And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
j And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
I Looks likest what the boors believe to be 
' Their cloven-footed terror. 

ARNOLD. 

Do you — dare you 
j To taunt me with my born deformity? 

STRANGER. 

j Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself, 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural : 'twas only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

ARNOLD. 

Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot, 
; When he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
; Near enemy; or let me have the long 
j And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 



/■is eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, | T) ie helmless dromedary :-and I'll bear 
whicli seems in motion. 



The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve? 
No. Yet it moves again! the waters stir, 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What 's here? A mist! no more? — 



f A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands n[\ lOU moc ^ es i me 



Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

STRANGER. 

; i win. 

Arnold (ivith surprise). 
Thou canstl 

stranger. 
Perhaps. Would you aught else! 

ARNOLD. 



gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall 



black 



comes towards liim. 



ARNOLD. 

What would you? Speak ! 
Spirit or man? 

STRANGER. 

As man is both, why not 
Say both in one? 

ARNOLD. 

Your form is man's, and yet 
You may be devil. 

STRANGER. 

So many men are that 
Which is so call'd or thought, that you may add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

ARNOLD. 

You have interrupted me. 

STRANGER. 

What is that resolution which can e'er 

Re interrupted? If I be the devil 

You deem, a single moment would have made you 

Mine, and for ever, by your suicide; 

And yet my coming saves you. 

ARNOLD. 

I said not 
You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 



STRANGER. 

Not I. >Vhy should I mock 
I What all are mocking? That 's poor sport, methinks. 

To talk to thee in human language (for 
| Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
| Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a-year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
Now I can mock the mightiest. 

ARNOLD. 

Then waste not 
Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

STRANGER. 

Your thoughts 
Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not so easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 

ARNOLD. 

What wilt thou do for me? 

STRANGER. 

Change 
Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you; 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

ARNOLD. 

Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 



THE DEFORMED 


TRANSFORMED. 4 2 9 ! 


STRANGER. 


Such his desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 


I '11 show tbee 


Such my command 1 


The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 


Demons heroic — 


Thy choice. 


Demons who wore 


ARNOLD. 


The form of the Stoic 


On what condition? 


Or Sophist of yore — 


STRANGER. 


Or the shape of each victor, 


There 's a question ! 


From Macedon's boy 


An hour ago you would have given your soul 


To each high Roman's picture, 


To look like other men, and now you pause 


Who breathed to destroy. 


To wear the form of heroes ! 


Shadows of beauty! 


ARNOLD. 


Shadows of power ! 


No; I will not. 


Up to your duty — 


T must not compromise my soul. 


This is the hour ! 


STRANGER. 


[Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and j 


What soul, 


pass in succession before the Stranger and 


; Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 


Arnold. 


ARNOLD. 


ARNOLD. 


'T is an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 


What do I see ? 


In -which it is mislodged. But name your compact : 


STRANGER. 


Must it be sign'd in blood? 


The black-eyed Roman, with 
The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 


STRANGER. 


Not in vour own. 


Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 


ARNOLD. 


The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 


Whose blood then ? 


His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 

ARNOLD. 


STRANGER. 


We will talk of that hereafter. 


The phantom 's bald; my quest is beauty. Could I 


I5ut I 11 be moderate with you, for I see 


Inherit but his fame with his defects! 


Great things within you. You shall hare no bond 


STRANGER. 


But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 


His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. 


Are you content? 


You see his aspect — chuse it or reject : 


ARNOLD. 


I can but promise you his form ; his fame 


I take thee at thy word. 


Must be long sought and fought for. 


STRANGER. 


ARNOLD. 


Now then! — 


I will fight too, 


[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 


But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 


turns to Arnold. 


His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 


A little of your blood. 


STRANGER. 


ARNOLD. 


Then you are far more difficult to please 


For what? 


Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 


STRANGER. 


Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 


To mingle with the magic of the waters, 


When love is not less in the eye than heart. 


And make the charm effective. 


But be it so ! Shadow, pass on! 


Arnold [holding outhis wounded arm). 


[The Phantom of Julius Caesar disappears, j 


Take it all. 


ARNOLD. 


STRANGER. 


And can it 


Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 


Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone 


[The Stranger takes some of Arnold's blood in 


And left no footstep? 


his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 


STRANGER. 


Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power ! 


There you err. His substance 


Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 


Rise to your duty — 


More than enough to track his memory; 


This is the hour! 


But for his shadow, 't is no more than yours, 


Walk lovely and pliant ! 


Except a little longer and less crooked 


From the depth of this fountain, 


I' the sun. Behold another! 


As the cloud-shapen giant 


[A second Phantom passes. ! 


Bestrides the Hartz mountain. " 


ARNOLD. 


Come as ye were, 


Who is he ? 


That our eyes may behold 


STRANGER. 


The model in air 


lie was the fairest and the bravest of 


Of the form I will mould, 


Athenians. Look upon him well. 


Bright as the Iris 


ARNOLD. 


When ether is spann'd : — 


He is 




More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 


' This is a well-known German superstition — a gigantic shadow 


STRANGER. 


produced bv reflection oil the Brocken. 

1 | 


Such was the curled son of Clinias; — wouldst thou 



43o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Invest thee with his form? 

ARNOLD. 

Would that I had 
Been born with it ! But since I may chuse further, 
I will look further. 

[The Shade of Alcihiades disappears. 

STRANGER. 

Lo ! Behold again ! 

ARNOLD. 

What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

STRANGER. 

And yet he was 
The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him? 

ARNOLD. 

If his form could bring me 
That which redeem'd it — no. 

STRANGER. 

I have no power 
To promise that; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

ARNOLD. 

No. I was not born for philosophy, 

Though I have that about me which has need on 't. 

Let him fleet on. 

STRANGER. 

Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 
[Tlie Shadow of Socrates disappears : another rises. 

ARNOLD. 

What 's here whose broad brow and whose curly beard 

And manly aspect look like Hercules, 

Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 

Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 

Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 

As if he knew the worthlessness of those 

For whom he had fought ? 

STRANGER. 

It was the man who lost 
The ancient world for love. 

ARNOLD. 

I cannot blame him, 
Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

STRANGER. 

Since so far 
You seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 

ARNOLD. 

No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

STRANGER. 

Hence, Triumvir ! 
Thy Cleopatra 's waiting. 

[The Shade of Anthony disappears : another rises. 

ARNOLD. 

Who is this ? 
Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature, 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 



Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only ? 

STRANGER. 

Let the earth speak, 
Tf there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

ARNOLD. 

Who was this glory of mankind ? 

STRANGER. 

The shame 
Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

ARNOLD. 

Yet one shadow more. 
stranger (addressing the Shadow). 
Get thee to Lamia's lap ! 

[The Shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes : 
another rises. 

STRANGER. 

I '11 fit you still, 
Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadow of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I '11 animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

ARNOLD. 

Content ! I will fix here. 

STRANGER. 

I must commend 
Your choice. The god-like son of the sea-goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
Softened by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them ! 
And him — as he stood by Polyxena, 
With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

ARNOLD. 

I gaze upon him 
As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

STRANGER. 

You have done well. The greatest 
Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

ARNOLD. 

Come! Be quick! 
I am impatient. 

STRANGER. 

As a youthful beauty. 
Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is what must be. 

ARNOLD. 

Must I wait? 



No; that were pity. 



STRANGER. 

But a word or two : 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



43 1 



His stature is twelve cubits : -would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titau? Or 
(To talk canonically) -wax a son 
Of Anak? 

ARNOLD. ^ 

Why not? 

STRANGER. 

Glorious ambition ! 
I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David; 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
If such be thy desire; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth; and their cursed engines, 
Their culverins and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptise 
In Styx. 

ARNOLD. 

Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 

STRANGER. 

Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou see'st, 
And strong as what it was, and — 

ARNOLD. 

I ask not 

For valour, since deformity is daring. 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal- 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 

STRANGER. 

Well spoken! And thou doubtless wilt remain 
Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to encase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it? 

ARNOLD. 

Had no power presented me 
The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may, to make 
Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
A hateful and unsightly mole-hill to 
The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love but despair; nor sought to win, 
Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless. 



Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance, 
Had made me something— as it has made heroes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

STRANGER. 

Decide between 
What you have been, or will be. 

ARNOLD. 

I have done so. 
You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved, 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view, 
Haste ! haste! 

STRANGER. 

And what shall / wear ? 

ARNOLD. 

Surely he 
Who can command all forms, will chuse the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris: or — still higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

STRANGER. 

Less will content me; 
For I too love a change. 

ARNOLD. 

Your aspect is 
Dusky, but not uncomely. 

STRANGER. 

If I chose, 
I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear: 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I'll take your figure. 

ARNOLD. 

Mine ! 

STRANGER. 

Yes. You 
Shall change -with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes; 
You have yours — I mine. 

ARNOLD. 

Dispatch ! dispatch ! 

STRANGER. 

Even so. 

[The Stranger takes some earth and moulds 
it along the turf ; and then addresses 
the Phantom of Achilles. 

Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 



43* 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



From the red earth, like Adam, « 

Thy likeness I shape, 
As the Being -who made him, 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 

Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak! 
Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou sunshiny water, 

Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 

Be his long, flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows, 

As thou wavest in air ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from the rock! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound ! 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me and hear me, 

And leap to my word! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation ! 
T is done ! He hath taken 

His stand in creation ! 

[Arnold fa Us senseless ; his soul passes into the 
shape of Achilles, which rises from the 
around ; while the phantom has disappeared, 
part by part, as tlie figure was formed from 
the earth. 

Arnold (in his new form). 
I love, and I shall be beloved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirits ! 

STRANGER. 

Stop ! 
What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

ARNOLD. 

Who cares! Let wolves 
And vultures take it, if they will. 

STRANGER. 

And if 
They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

ARNOLD. 

Let us but leave it there, 
No matter what becomes on 't. 

STRANGER. 

That's ungracious, 
If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 



Adam means « red earth, » from which the first man was formed. 



It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 

STRANGER. 

But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid, have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Not make them— though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship: — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 

ARNOLD. 

Who would do so ? 

STRANGER. 

That I know not, 
And therefore I must. 

ARNOLD. 

You! 

STRANGER. 

I said it ere 
You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

ARNOLD. 

True. I forget all things in the new jov 
Of this immortal change. 

STRANGER. 

In a few moments 
I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 

ARNOLD. 

I would be spared this. 

STRANGER. 

But it cannot be. 
What ! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeing what you were ? 

ARNOLD. 

Do as thou wilt. 
stranger (to the late form o/arnold, extended on the 
earth). 
Clay ! not dead, but soulless! 

Though no man would chuse thee, 
An immortal no less 

Designs not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art: and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 

Fire ! without which nought can live ; 
Fire ! but in which nought can live, 

Save the fabled salamander, 

Or immortal souls which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water, 

Burning in a quenchless lot : 
Fire, the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 
Save the worm which dieth not, 

Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyself be blent : 
Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter: 
Fire ! creation's first-born daughter, 

And destruction's threaten 'd son, 

When Heaven with the world hath done: 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 



THE DEFORMED 


TRANSFORMED. 433 


Stiff and cold ! 


STRANGER. 


His resurrection rests with me and you! 


And of 


Oue little marshy spark of [lame — 


A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 


And lie again shall seem the same; 


Or your Kochlani race of Araby, 


But I his spirit's place shall hold! 


With these ! 


[An ignis-fatuus flits tlirongh the wood, and rests 
on the brow of Hie body. The Stranger dis- 
appears: the body rises. 


ARNOLD. 


The mighty stream, which volumes high 


From their proud nostrils, burns the very air; 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 


aknold (in Ids new form). 


Around their manes, as common insects swarm 


Oh! horrihle! 


Bound common steeds towards sunset. 


stranger (in Arnold's late shape). 


STRANGER. 


What ! tremblest thou? 


Mount, my lord ; 


ARNOLD. 


They and I are your servitors. 


Not so— 


ARNOLD. 


I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 


And these, 


Thou lately -worest? 


Our dark-eyed pages— what may be their names? 


STRANGER. 


STRANGER. 


To the world of shadows. 


You shall baptise them. 


But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou? 


ARNOLD. 


ARNOLD. 


What! in holy water? 


Must thou be my companion? 


STRANGER. 


STRANGER. 


Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 


Wherefore not ? 


ARNOLD. 


Your betters keep worse company. 


They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons! 


ARNOLD. 


STRANGER. 


My betters ! 


True; the devil 's always ugly; and your beauty 


STRANGER. 


Is never diabolical. 


Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new form: 


ARNOLD. 


I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well; 


I '11 call him 


You improve apace: — two changes in an instant, 


Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 


And you are old in the world's ways already. 


And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks 


But bear with me: indeed you '11 find me useful 


Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 


Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 


And never found till now. And for the other 


Where shall we now be errant? 


And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 


ARNOLD. 


But looks as serious though serene as night, 


Where the world 


He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king, 


Is thickest, that I may behold it in 


Whose statue turns a harper once a-day. 


Its workings. 


And you? 


STRANGER. 


STRANGER. 


That *s to say, where there is war 


I have ten thousand names, and twice 


And woman in activity. Let 's see! 


As many attributes ; but as I wear 


Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 


A human shape, will take a human name. 


Afric with all its Moors. In very truth, 


ARNOLD. 


There is small choice: the whole race are just now 


More human than the shape (though it was mine once) 


Tugging as usual at each others' hearts. 


I trust? 


ARNOLD. 


STRANGER. 


I have heard great things of Bome. 


Then call me Caesar. 


STRANGER. 


ARNOLD. 


A goodly choice — 


Why, that name 


And scarce a better to be found on earth, 


Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 


Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too; 


By the world's lords. 


For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 


STRANGER. 


Of the old Vandals are at play along 


And therefore fittest for 


The sunny shores of the world's garden. 


The devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 


ARNOLD. 


Unless you call me pope instead. 


How 


ARNOLD. 


Shall we proceed? 


Well then, 


STRANGER. 


Ca?sar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 


Like gallants on good coursers. 


Shall be plain Arnold still. 


What ho! my chargers! Never yet were better, 


CESAR. 


Since Phaetou was upset into the Po. 


We '11 add a title — 


Our pages too! 


« Count Arnold :« it hath no ungracious sound, 


Enter two Pages, witiifour coal-black Horses. 


And will look well upon a billet-doux. 


ARNOLD. 


ARNOLD. 


A noble sight! 


Or in an order for a battle-field. 

55 



434 BYRON'S 


WORKS 


CESAR [sings). 
To horse ! to horse ! my coal-black steed 

Paws the ground and snuffs the air ! 
There 's not a foal of Arab's breed 

More knows whom he must bear ! 


CESAR. 

Your obedient, humble servant. 

ARNOLD. 

Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 


On the hill he will not tire, 
Swifter as it waxes higher; 
In the marsh he will not slacken, 


CESAR. 

And where wouldst thou be ? 

ARNOLD. 


On the plain be overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink, 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink, 


Oh, at peace — in peace ! 

CESAR. 

And where is that which is so? From the star 


In the race he will not pant, 
In the combat he'll not faint; 
On the stones he will not stumble, 


To the winding worm, all life is motion, and 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels, till it becomes 


Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 

In the stall he will not stiffen, 

But be winged as a griffin, 

Only flying -with his feet: 

And will not such a voyage be sweet? 

Merrily! merrily! never unsound, 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 


A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 

The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way, 

Living upou the death of other things, 

But still, like them, must live and die the subject 

Of something which has made it live and die. 

You must obey what all obey, the rule 

Of fix'd necessity: against her edict 


From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly! 
For we '11 leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
[They mount their horses, and disappear. 


Bebellion prospers not. 

ARNOLD. 

And when it prospers 

CESAR. 

'T is no rebellion. 




SCENE II. 


ARNOLD. 


A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 


Will it prosper now ? 

CESAR. 


Arnold and Cesar. 


The Dourbon hath given orders for the assault. 
And by the dawn there will be work. 


CESAR. 


ARNOLD. 


Yen are well eater'd now. 


Alas! 


ARNOLD. 

Ay; but my path 


And shall the city yield? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 


lias been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 


Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 

That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 


CESAR. 

Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why! 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France ; and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 


Which his blood made a badge of glory and 

Of joy (as once of torture unto him, 

God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge). 

CESAR. 

'T is there, and shall be. 

ARNOLD. 


Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
Lady of the old world. 


What? 

CESAR. 

The crucifix 


ARNOLD. 

How old? What? are there 
New worlds? 

CESAR. 

To you. You '11 find there are such shortly, 


Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upou the walls, 
And harquebusses, and what not, besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 


j By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold; 

| From one half of the world named a whole new one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

ARNOLD. 

I 11 trust them. 

CESAR. 

Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 
And that is better than the bitter truth! 


ARNOLD. 

And those scarce mortal arches, 
Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed der.ert, brought to joust 
In the arena (as right well they might, 


ARNOLD. 

Dog! 


When they had left no human foe unconquer'd), 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 


CESAR. 

Man! 


Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 


ARNOLD. 

Devil! 


For a sole instant's pastime, and « Pass on 
To a new gladiator !»— Must it fall ! 







THE DEFORMED 


TRANSFORMED. 4^5 


CESAR. 


CESAR. 


The city or the amphitheatre? 


It answers better to resolve the alphabet 


The church, or one, or all? for you confound 


Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 


Both them and me. 


And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 


ARNOLD. 


Philosopher, and what not, they have built 


To-morrow sounds the assault 


More Babels wiihout new dispersion, than 


With the first cock-crow. 


The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 


C«SAR. 


Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why,, marry, 


Which, if it end with 


Because no man could understand his neighbour. 


The evening's first nightingale, will be 


They are wiser now, and will not separate 


Something new in the annals of great sieges: 


For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 


For men must have their prey after long toil. 

ARNOLD. 


Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 


Cabala : their best brick-work wherewithal 


The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 


They build more — 


More beautifully, than he did on B.ome 


ARNOLD (interrupting him). 


On the day Remus leapt her wall. 


Oh ! thou everlasting sneerer! 


CESAR. 


Be silent ! How the soldiers' rough strain seems 


I saw him. 


Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence! 


ARNOLD. 


Listen ! 


You! 


CESAR. 


CESAR. 


Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 


Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 


ARNOLD. 


Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 


And demons howl. 


And a worse name. I 'm Caesar and a hunch-back 


CESAR. 


Now. Well ! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 


And man too. Let us listen : 


And loved his laurels better as a wig 


I love all music. 


(So history says) than as glory. Thus 


Song of the Soldiers within . 


The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 


I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 


The Black Bands came over 


Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb, 


The Alps and their snow, 


Because he leapt a ditch ('t was then no wall, 


With Bourbon, the rover, 


Whate'er it now be); and Rome's earliest cement 


They pass'd the broad Po. 


Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 


We have beaten all foemen, 


Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 


We have captured a king, 


As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear 


We have turn'd back on no men, 


The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 


And so let us sing ! 


Which the great robber sons of Fratricide 


Here 's the Bourbon for ever! 


Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 


Though penniless all, 


For ages. 


We'll have one more endeavour 


ARNOLD. 


At yonder old wall. 


But what have these clone, their far 


With the Bourbon we '11 gather 


Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 


At day-dawn before 


The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 


The gates, and together 


Piety ? 


Or break or climb o'er 


CESAR. 


The wall : on the ladder, 


And what had they done whom the old 


As mounts each firm foot, 


Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 


Our shout shall grow gladder, 


ARNOLD. 


And death only be mute. 


They are soldiers singing 


With the Bourbon we '11 mount o'cr 


A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 


The walls of old Rome, 


Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 


And who then shall count o'er 


CESAR. 


The spoils of each dome? 


And why should they not sing as well as swans? 


Up ! up! with the lily! 


They are black ones, to be sure. 


And down with the keys! 


ARNOLD. 


In old Rome, the Seven-hilly, 


So, you are learn'd, 


We '11 revel at ease : 


I see too ? 


Her streets shall be gory, 


CESAR. 


Her Tiber all red, 


In my grammar, certes. I 


And her temples so hoary 


Was educated for a monk of all times, 


Shall clang with our tread. 


And once I was well versed in the forgotten 


Oh ! the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 


Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 


The Bourbon for aye ! 


Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 


Of our song bear the burthen ! 


Your alphabet. 


And fire, fire away! 


ARNOLD. 


With Spain for the vanguard, 


And wherefore do you not? 


Our varied host comes ; 



436 BYRON'S 


WORKS 


And next to the Spaniard 


A guard in sight; they wisely keep below, 


Beat Germany's drums ; 


Shelter' d by the grey parapet, from some 


And Italy's lances 


Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 


Are couch'd at their mother ; 


Practise in the cool twilight. 


But our leader from France is, 


BOURBON. 


Who "warr'd with his brother. 


You are blind. 


Oh, the Bourbou ! the Bourbon ! 


PHILIBERT. 


Sans country or home, 


Tf seeing nothing more than may be seen • 


We '11 follow the Bourbon, 


Be so! 


To plunder old Rome. 


BOURBON. 


CESAR. 


A thousand years have mann'd the walls 


An indifferent song 


With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 


For those -within the walls, methinks, to hear. 


And tears his bowels, rather than survive 


ARNOLD. 


The liberty of that I would enslave. 


Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes 


And the first Gasar with his triumphs flits 


The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 


From battlement to battlement. 


A goodly rebel ! 


PHILIBERT. 




Then conquer 


Enter the Constable Bourbon, « cumsuis,» etc., etc., etc. 


The walls for which he conquer'd and be greater ! 


PHILIBERT. 


BOURBON. 


How now, noble prince, 


True : so I will, or perish. 


You are not cheerful ? 


PHILIBERT. 


BOURBON. 


You can not. 


Why should I be so ? 


In such an enterprise to die is rather 


PHILIBERT. 


The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 


Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, 


Count Arnold and Cesar advance. 


Most men would be so. 




BOURBON. 


Cesar, 


If I were secure ! 


And the mere men — do they too sweat beneath 


PHILIBERT. 


The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 


Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant, 


BOURBON. 


They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 


Ah! 


BOURBON. 


Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 


That they will falter is my least of fears. 


The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 


That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 


And generous as lovely. We shall find 


Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 


Work for you both ere morning. 


To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 


CESAR. 


Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 


You will find, 


Of the old fables, 1 would trust my Titans ; — 


So please your highness, no less for yourself. 


But now — 


BOURBON. 


PHILIBERT. 


And if I do, there will not be a labourer 


They are but men, who war with mortals. 


More forward, hunchback ! 


BOURBON. 


CESAR. 


True : but those walls have girded in great ages, 


You may well say so, 


And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 


For you have seen that back — as general, 


And present phantom of imperious Rome 


Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 


Is peopled with those warriors; and methinks 


Have never seen it. 


They (lit along the eternal city's rampart, 


BOURBON. 


And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 


That 's a fair retort, 


And beckon me away ! 


For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 


PHILIBERT. 


Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 


So let them ! Wilt thou 


In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 


Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows? 


CESAR. 


BOURBON. 


And if I were, I might have saved myself 


They do not menace me. I could have faced, 


The toil of coming here. 


Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp 


PHILIBERT. 


And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 


Why so? 


And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 


CESAR. 


Fascinate mine. Look there ! 


One half 


PHILIBERT. 


Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 


I look upon 


Will go to him, the other half be sent, 


A lofty battlement. 


More swiftly, not less surely. 


BOURBON. 


BOURBON. 


And there ! 


Arnold, your 


PHILIBERT. 


Slight crooked friend 's as snake-like in his words 


Not even 


As his deeds. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



43 7 



CJESAR. 

Your highness much mistakes me. 
The first snake was a flatterer — I am none; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 

BOURBON. 

You are brave, and that 's enough for me : and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

CESAR. 

They are but bad company, your highness; 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

PHILIBERT. 

How now, fellow ! 
Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

CESAR. 

You mean, I speak the truth. 
I '11 lie — it is as easy; then you '11 praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

BOURBON. 

Philibert! 
Let him alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
Been first with that swart face and mountain shoulder 
In field or storm; and patient in starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
With which he deems him rich. 

CESAR. 

It would be well 
If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

BOURBON. 

Be silent ! 

CESAR. 

Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words! 
You have few to speak. 

PHILIBERT. 

What means the audacious prater ! 

CJESAR. 

To prate, like other prophets. 

BOURBON. 

Philibert ! 
Why will you vex him? Have we not enough 
To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

ARNOLD. 

I have heard as much, my lord. 

BOURBON. 

And you will follow ? 

ARNOLD. 

Since I must not lead. 

BOURBON. 

'T is necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step. 

CESAR. 

Upon its topmost, let us hope : 
So shall he have his full deserts. 



BOURBON. 

The world's 
Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hill'd city hath 
lletain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well! 
T was their turn — now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
That we will fight as well, and rule much better. 

CESAR. 

No doubt, the camp 's the school of civic rights. 
\Yhat would you make of Rome? 

BOURBON. 

That which it was. 

CESAR. 

la Alaric's time? 

BOURBON. 

No, slave! In the first Caesar's, 
Whose name you bear like other curs. 

CESAR. 

And kings. 
'T is a great name for blood-hounds. 

BOURBON. 

There 's a demon 
In that fierce rattle-snake thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious? 

CESAR. 

On the eve of battle, no; — 
That were not soldier-like. 'T is for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think? 
Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape, 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

BOURBON. 

You may sneer, since 
T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for t. 

CESAR. 

I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

BOURBON. 

Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those towers; they hold my treasury. 
Cut, Philibert, we 'II in to council. Arnold! 
We would request your presence. 

AP.NOLD. 

Prince ! my service 
Is yours, as in the field. 

BOURBON. 

In both we prize it ; 
And yours will be a post of trust at day-break. 

CjESAR. 

And mine? 

BOURBON. 

To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
Good night! 

ARNOLD (to CESAR). 

Prepare our armour for the assault, 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, etc. 
cesar (solus). 

Within thy tent ! 



438 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence? 

Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd 

Thy principle of life, is aught to me 

Except a mask? And these are men, forsooth ! 

Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards! 

This is the consequence of giving matter 

The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 

And thinks chaotically, as it acts, 

Ever relapsing into its first elements. 

Well! I must play -with these poor puppets : 't is 

The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 

When I grow weary of it, I have business 

Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 

Were made for them to look at. 'T were a jest now 

To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 

Unto their ant-hill : how the pismires then 

Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 

From tearing down each others' nests, pipe forth 

One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! [Exit Cesar. 



PART II. 

SCENE I. 

Before the Walls of Rome. The assault; the army in 
motion, with ladders to scale the walls; Bourbon, 
with a white scarf over his armour, foremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air. 

'T is the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy; 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh! ye seven hills! awaken, 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 



Hearken to the steady stamp ! 

Mars is in their every tramp ! 

Not a step is out of tune, 

As the tides obey the moon ; 

On they march, though to self-slaughter, 

Regular as rolling water, 

Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 

Of huge moles, but keep their order, 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armour's clank ! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier ! 

Look on each step of each ladder, 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 



Look upon the bristling wall, 
*Iann'd without an interval ! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
Lit match, beU-mouth'd musquetoon, 
Gaping to be murderous soon. 



All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
Gather like a locust's crew. 
Shade of Remus! 't is a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine : 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 



Near — and near — nearer still, 

As the earthquake saps the hill, 

First with trembling, hollow motion, 

Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 

Then with stronger shock and louder, 

Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 

Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 

Heroes of the immortal boast! 

Mighty chiefs! Eternal shadows! 

First flowers of the bloody meadows 

Which encompass Rome, the mother 

Of a people without brother ! 

Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 

Plough the root up of your laurels? 

Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning, 

Weep not — strike! for Rome is mourning! 

5. 
Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations; 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
Must thou be a theme for pity ! 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match' d with Dourbon's black banditti! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city! 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the porch 
With thy own hand to thy torch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 



Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
Ilion's children find no Hector; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother; 
Roma's sire forgot his mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin, 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When he first o'erleapt thy wall, 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 



Now they reach thee in their anger : 
Fire, and smoke, and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder! 
Death is in thy walls and under ! 

1 Scipio, the second Africanus, is said to haTe repealed a verse of 
Homer, and wept over the burning of Carthage. He had better 
have granted it a capitulation. 



THE. DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



43 9 



Now the meeting steel first clashes; 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleataing, 
Lying at its foot blaspheming' 
Up again! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome! although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome! — 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish, 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish! 



Yet once more, ye old Penates! 

Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's! 

Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 

Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 

Though the son who slew his mother, 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother: 

'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman: — 

Brennus was a baffled foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 

Rise, for yours are holier charters. 

Mighty gods of temples falling, 

Yet in ruin still appalling! 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and christian,— strike the assaulters ! 

Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 

Let each breathing heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion bailed ! 

Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 

But be still the Roman's Rome! 

Bourbon, Arnold, Cesar, and others, arrive at the foot 
of the wall. Arnold is about to plant Ids ladder. 

bourbon. 
Hold, Arnold! I am first. 

ARNOLD. 

Not so, my lord. 

BOURBON. 

Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow! I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot strikes him, and Bourbon/aHs. 

CESAR. 

And off! 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal powers ! 
The host will be appall'd.— But vengeance ! vengeance ! 

bourbon. 
'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand and rises; but, 
as he puis his foot on the step, falls again. 

Arnold ! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon; 
Let not the soldiers see it. ■ 

ARNOLD. 

You must be 
Removed: the aid of 



bourbon. 

No, my gallant boy; 
Death is upon me. But what is one life? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 

CESAR. 

Would not your highness chuse to kiss the cross? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead: — it did the same for Bayard. 

bourbon. 
Thou bitter slave ! to name him at this time! 
But I deserve it. 

Arnold (to cesar). 
Villain, hold your peace! 

CESAR. 

What, when a christian dies? Shall I not offer 
A christian « Vade in pace?» 

ARNOLD. 

Silence! Oh! 
Those eyes are glazing, which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 

bourbon. 
Arnold, shouldst thou see 
France — But hark! hark! the assault grows warmer — 

Oh! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life, 
To die within the wall! Hence, Arnold! hence! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 

ARNOLD. 

And without thee! 

BOURBON. 

Not so ; 1 '11 lead them still 
In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away! and be 
Victorious! 

ARNOLD. 

But I must not leave thee thus. 

BOURBON. 

You must — farewell — Up ! up ! the world is winning. 

[ Bourbon dies. 
cesar (to Arnold). 
Come, count, to business. 

ARNOLD. 

True. I '11 weep hereafter. 
[Arnold covers Boureon's body with a mantle, and 
mounts the ladder, crying, 
The Bourbon! Bourbon! On boys! Rome is ours! 

CESAR. 

Good night, Lord Constable! thou wert a man. 
[Cesar follows Arnold; they reach the battlement; 
Arnold and Cesar are struck down. 
A precious somerset! Is your countship injured? 

ARNOLD. 

No. [Remounts the ladder. 

CESAR. 

A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated! 
And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here, a Roman ? 

[A man falls. 
The first bird of the covey! he has fall'n 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow? 

THE WOUNDED MAN. 

A drop of water! 



44o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



[ Dies. 



CESAR. 

Blood 's the only liquid 
Nearer than Tiber. 

WOUNDED MAN. 

I have died for Rome. 

CESAR. 

And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 

Oh these immortal men! and their great motives! 

But I must after my young charge. He is 

By this time i' the forum. Charge! charge! 

[CjKSar mounts the ladder; the scene closes. 



SCENE I] 



The City. — Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged 
in the streets. Inhabitants flying in confusion. 

Enter Cesar. 

CAESAR. 

I cannot find my hero; he is mix'd 

With the heroic crowd that now pursue 

The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 

What have we here? A cardinal or two 

That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 

How the old red-shanks scamper! Could they doff 

Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 't would be 

A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 

But let them fly, the crimson kennels now 

Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 

Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes, 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory. 
Holla! hold, count! 

ARNOLD. 

Away ! they must not rally. 

CESAR. 

I tell thee, be not rash; a golden bridge 

Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 

A form of beauty, and an 

Exemption from some maladies of body, 

But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 

But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 

I dipt thee not in Styx; and 'gainst a foe 

I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 

More than Pelides' heel ; why, then, be cautious, 

And know thyself a mortal still. 

ARNOLD. 

And who 
With aught of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 

CESAR. 

A precious sample of humanity! 
Well, his blood 's up, and if a little 's shed, 
T will serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman, who retires towards 
a portico. 

ARNOLD. 

Yield thee, slave ! 
I promise quarter. 

ROMAN. 

That 's soon said. 



ARNOLD. 

And done — 
My word is known. 

ROMAN. 

So shall be my deeds. 
[ They re-engage. Cesar comes forward. 

CJESAR. 

Why, Arnold! Hold thine own; thou hast in hand 
A famous artizan, a cunning sculptor; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqueteer; 't was he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay, did he so? 
Then he hath carved his monument. 



yet 



May live to carve your better's. 

CESAR. 

Well said, my man of marble! Benvenuto, 
Thou hast some practice in both ways; and he 
Who slays Cellini, will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 
[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but slightly; the 
latter draws a pistol and fires; then retires 
and disappears through the portico. 

CJESAR. 

How farest thou? Thou hast a taste, methinks, 
Of red Bellona's banquet. 

Arnold (staggers). 

'T is a scratch. 
Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 

CjESAR. 

Where is it ? 

ARNOLD. 

In the shoulder, not the sword-arm — 
And that 's enough. I am thirsty: would I had 
A helm of water! 

CESAR. 

That 's a liquid now 
la requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

ARNOLD. 

And my thirst increases; — but 
I '11 find a way to quench it. 

CESAR. 

Or be quench'd 
Thyself? 

ARNOLD. 

The chance is even; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in pratinj; 
Prithee be quick. [Cesar binds on the scarf. 

And what dost thou so idly? 
Why dost not strike? 

CJESAR. 

Your old philosophers 
Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

CESAR. 

A forest, when it suits mo. 
I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine: 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



44 



Which is just now to gaze, since all these labourers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

v ARNOLD. 

Thou art still 
A fiend ! 

CESAR. 

And thou — a man. 

ARNOLD. 

Why, such I fain would show me. 

CESAR. 

True — as men are. 

ARNOLD. 

And what is that? 

CESAR. 

Thou feelest and thou see'st. 

[Exit Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues between detached parties. The scene 
closes. 



SCENE III. 



St Peter's. The Interior of the Church. The Pope at 
the Altar. Priests, etc. crowding in confusion, and 
Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by Soldiery. 

Enter Cesar. 

A SPANISH SOLDIER. 

Down with them, comrades! seize upon those lamps! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary 's of gold ! 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

Revenge! Revenge! 
Plunder hereafter, hut for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ! 

cesar (interposing). 

How now, schismatic ! 
What wouldst thou? 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

In the holy name of Christ, 
Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

CJESAR. 

Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 

Of your belief renounce it, could he see 

Such proselytes. Dest stint thyself to plunder. 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

I say he is the devil. 

CJESAR. 

Hush ! keep that secret, 
Lest he should recognize you for his own. 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

Why would you save him ? I repeat, he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

CJESAR. 

And that 's the reason; would you make a quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

That shall be seen ! 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward : a shot strikes 
him from one of the Pope's guards, and he falls at 
the foot of the Altar. 



LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

And will you not avenge me? 

CJESAR. 

Not I ! You know that « vengeance is the Lord's ;» 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Lutheran (dying). 
Oh! 
Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes! [The Lutheran dies. 

CJESAR. 

Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
Well done, old Babel ! 

[Tlie Guards defend themselves desperately, while 
the Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to the 
Vatican and the Castle of St Angelo. 

CESAR. 

Ha! right nobly battled! 
Now, priest! now soldier! the two great professions 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not 
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
Now they must take their turn. 
soldiers. 

He hath escaped ! 
Follow! 

ANOTHER SOLDIER. 

They have barr'd the narrow passage up, 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 

CJESAR. 

I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank me for l 

In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd — 

T were worth one half our empire : his indulgences 

Demand some in return; — no, no, he must not 

Fall ; and besides, his now escape may furnish 

A future miracle, in fulure proof 

Of his infallibility. [7b the SpanisJi Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats! 
What do you pause for? If you make not haste, 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you too, catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
Sec how they strip the shrines! 
soldiers. 

By holy Peter ! 
He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

CJESAR. 

And that were shame ! Go to ! 
Vssist in their conversion. 



told you so. 



cjesar (to the Lutheran). 



[The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the Church, 
others enter. 

CJESAR. 

They are gone, 
And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 

56 



44* 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While they are hut its huhbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 

Enter Olimpia, flying from tlie pursuit — She springs 
upon the Altar. 

SOLDIER. 

She's mine. 

another soldier (opposing the former). 

You lie! I traek'd her first; and, were she 
The pope's niece, I '11 not yield her. [Tliey Jight. 

third soldier (advancing towards Olimpia). 
You may settle 
Your claims; I '11 make mine good. 

OLIMPIA. 

Infernal slave ! 
You touch me not alive. 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

Alive or dead! 
olimpia (embracing a massive crucifix). 
Respect your God! 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

Yes, when he shines in gold. 
Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden 
effort, casts down the crucifix; it strikes the Sol- 
dier, who falls. 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

Oh, great God ! 

OLIMPIA. 

Ah! now you recognise him. 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

My brain 's crush'd ! 
Comrades, help, ho ! All 's darkness ! [He dies. 

other soldiers (coming itp). 
Slay her, although she had a thousand lives: 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

OLIMPIA. 

Welcome such a death ! 
You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee ! 

Enter Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear! 

cjesar (aside, and laughing). 
Ha ! ha ! here 's equity ! The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 

SOLDIERS. 

Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

ARNOLD. 

With what weapon? 

SOLDIER. 

The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; behold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

ARNOLD. 

Even so ! there is a woman 
Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
Ye would have honour'd her. But get ye hence, 
And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 



Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A soldier (murmuring). 

The lion 
Might conquer for himself then. 

Arnold (cuts him doiv?i). 
Mutineer ! 
Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assaidt Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

Come on ! I 'm glad on 't ! I will show you, slaves, 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were as shy to scale, 
Until I waved rny banners from its height, 
As you are bold within it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost; the rest throw 
down their arms. 

soldiers. 

Mercy ! mercy ! 

ARNOLD. 

Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 

SOLDIERS. 

We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 

A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 

The conquest which you led to. 

ARNOLD. 

Get you hence ! 
Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace. 

olimpia (aside). 
In my father's 
House ! 

Arnold (to Hie Soldiers). 
Leave your arms ; ye have no further need 
Of such: the city 's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I '11 find out a stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

soldiers (deposing their arms and departing). 
We obey. 

Arnold (to Olimpia). 
Lady! you are safe. 

olimpia. 

I should be so, 
Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man! 

ARNOLD. 

I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 

Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 

OLIMPIA. 

Go ! Thou hast only sack'd my native land,— 

No injury! — and made my father's house 

A den of thieves — No injury ! — this temple — 

Slippery with Roman and holy gore. 

No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 

To be — but that shall never be ! 

[She raises her eyes to heaven, folds her robe round 
her, and prepares to dash herself down on the side 
of the Altar, opposite to that where Arnold stands. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



443 



Hold ! hold ! 
I swear. 

OLIMPIA. 

Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

ARNOLD. 

No, thou know'st me not; I am not 
Of these men, though — 

OLIMPIA. 

I judge thee by thy mates; 
It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome; 
Take mine, 't is all thou e'er shalt have of me ! 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where tlie baptismal font baptised me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
Cut not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with disdain, and 
dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar. 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal God ! 
I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 
cesar (approaches). 

I am here. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou ! but ho, save her ! 

cesar (assisting him to raise Olimpia). 
She hath done it well ; 
The leap was serious. 

ARNOLD. 

Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

CESAR. 

If 
She be so, I have nought to do with that: 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

ARNOLD. 

Slave ! 

CESAR. 

Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

ARNOLD. 

Words ! — Canst thou aid her? 

CESAR. 

I will try. A sprinkling 
Of that same holy watev may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet from the font. 

ARNOLD. 

'T is mix'd with blood. 

CESAR. 

There is no cleaner now 
In Rome. 

ARNOLD. 

How pale! how beautiful! how lifeless ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

CESAR. 

Even so Achilles loved 
Penthesilea ; with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 



ARNOLD. 

She breathes ! But no, 't was nothing, or the last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

CESAR. 

She breathes. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou say'st it ? Then 't is truth. 

CESAR. 

You do me right — 
The devil speaks truth much oftener than he 's deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

a.rnold (without attending to him). 

Yes ! her heart beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine, should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

CESAR. 

A sage reflection, 
Cut somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear her? 
1 say she lives. 

ARNOLD. 

And will she live ? 

CESAR. 

As much 
As dust can. 

ARNOLD. 

Then she is dead ! 

CESAR. 

Bah ! bah ! You are so, 
And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

ARNOLD. 

We will 
Convey her unto the Colonna Palace, 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

CESAR. 

Come, then, raise her up! 

ARNOLD. 

Softly! 

CESAR. 

As softly as they bear the dead : 
Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

ARNOLD. 

But doth she live indeed? 

CESAR. 

Nay, never fear ! 
But if you rue it after, blame not me. 

ARNOLD. 

Let her but live ! 

CESAR. 

The spirit of her life 
Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count! count! I am your servant in all things, 
And this is a new office: — 't is not oft 
lam employ'd in such; but you perceive 
How staunch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Sofc! bear her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou ! 



444 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



C«SAR. 

I. But fear not : 1 '11 not be your rival. 

ARNOLD. 

Rival ! 

CESAR. 

I could be one right formidable; 
But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobia's future bride (and, after all, 
'T was suck'd out but by some incense) I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 't is rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again ; for there 's 
The rub! at least to mortals. 

ARNOLD. 

Prithee, peace ! 
Softly! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

CESAR. 

Like stars, no doubt ; for that 's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

ARNOLD. 

To the Palace 
Colonna, as I told you! 

CESAR. 

Oh! I know 
My way through Rome. 

ARNOLD. 

Now onward, onward! Gently ! 
[Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. — The scene closes. 



PART III. 

SCENE I. 



The morning-star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Cesar. 

cesar (singing). 
The wars are all over, 

Our swords are all idle, 

The steed bites the bridle, 
The casque 's on the wall. 
There 's rest for the rover ; 

But his armour is rusty, 

And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 
He drinks — but what 's drinking ? 
A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call. 

Chorus. 

But the hound bayeth loudly, 

The boar 's in the wood, 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood. 
On the wrist of the noble, 

She sits like a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 

CESAR. 

Oh ! shadow of glory ! 



A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but 


Dim image of war! 


smiling country. Chorus of Peasants singing before 


But the chase hath no story, 


the Gates. 


Her hero no star, 


Chorus. 


Since Nimrod, the founder 


i. 


Of empire and chase, 


The wars are over, 


Who made the woods wonder, 


The spring is come ; 


And quake for their race. 


The bride and her lover 


When the lion was young, 


Have sought their home : 


In the pride of his might, 


They are happy, we rejoice, 


Then 't was sport for the strong 


Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 


To embrace him in fight; 


To go forth, with a pine 


2. 


For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 


The spring is come ; the violet 's gone, 


Or strike through the ravine 


The first-born child of the early sun ; 


At the foaming behemoth ; 


With us she is but a winter's flower, 


While man was in stature 


The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 


As towers in our time, 


And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 


The first-born of Nature, 


To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 


And, like her, sublime ! 


3. 
And when the spring comes with her host 


Chorus. 


Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 


But the wars are over, 


Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 


The spring is come ; 


Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 


The bride and her lover 




Have sought their home: 


4- 


They are happy, and we rejoice ; 


Pluck the others, but still remember 


Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 


Their herald out of dim December- 


[Exeunt the Peasantry, singing. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 44^ 


ffieabm anir ©wti); 


A MYSTERY. 


FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI : 


Ami ii came to pass that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair, and they 


took them wives of all which they chose. 


And woman wailing for her demon lover.— COLERIDGE, 


DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 




Then wed thee 
Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 


ANGELS. 


Samiasa. 


There 's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long; 


AZAZIEL. 


Marry, and bring forth dust ! 


Raphael, the Archangel. 


ANAH. 

I should have loved 


MEN. 


Azaziel not less were he mortal : yet 


Noah, and his Sons. 


I am glad he is not. I cannot outlive him. 


Irad. 


And when I think that his immortal wings 


WOMEN. 


Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 


Anah. 


Of the poor child, of clay which so adored him, 


Aholibamah. 


As he adores the Highest, death becomes 




Less terrible ; but yet I pity him ; 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 


Chorus of Spirits of the Earth.— Chorus of Mortals. 




Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 
And he the perishable. 




HEAVEN AND EARTH. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 

Bather say, 
That he will single forth some other daughter 




SCENE I. 


Of earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 


A woody and mountainous district near Mount 


ANAH. 

And if it should be so, and she so loved him, 


Ararat. — Time, midnight. 


Better thus than that he should weep for me. 


Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 




If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 


anah. 


All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 


Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 


But to our invocation ! 'T is the hour. 


Who love us are accustom'd to descend 


ANAH. 


Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 


Seraph ! 
From thy sphere ! 


How my heart beats ! 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


Whatever star contain thy glory; 


Let us proceed upon 


In the eternal depths of heaven 


Our invocation. 


Albeit thou watchest with « the seven," ' 


ANAH. 


Though through space infinite and hoary 


But the stars are hidden. 
I tremble. 


Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear! 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 


So do I, but not with fear 


And though she nothing is to thee, 


Of aught save their delay. 


Yet think that thou art all to her. 


ANAH. 


Thou canst not tell, — and never be 


My sister, though 


Such pangs decreed to aught save me, 


I love Azaziel more than — oh, too much ! 


The bitterness of tears. 


What was I going to say? my heart grows impious. 


Eternity is in thine years, 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes : 


And where is the impiety of loving 


With me thou canst not sympathize, 


Celestial natures ? 


Except in love, and there thou must 


ANAH. 


Acknowledge that more loving dust 


But, Aholibamah, 


Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 


I love our God less since his angel loved me : 


Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 


This cannot be of good; and though I know not 


The face of Him who made thee great, 


That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 


. 


Which are not ominous of right. 


1 The archangels, said to be seven in number. 



446 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As He hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, seraph dear ! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forget'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep from o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such I feel are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my seraph ! that such thoughts appear. 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 

Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear! appear! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
And leave the stars to their own light. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Samiasa ! 
Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with Him 
Who made all empires, empire; or recalling 
Some wandering star which shoots through the abyss, 
Whose teuants, dying while their world is falling, 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ,- 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 
Many worship thee — that will I not : 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my lot! 
Though I be form'd of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality cannot repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long: death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it: thougli this life must pass away, 
Is that a. cause for thee and me to part? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel, 

I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
Into my ears this truth — « thou livest for ever !» 
But if it be in joy, 
I know not, nor would know; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 

Who folds in clouds the fonts of 4)liss and woe, 

But thee and me He never can destroy; 
Change us He may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
Of as eternal essence, and must war 



With Him if He will war with us; with thee 

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow; 
For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 
And shall / shrink from thine eternity? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
thorough, 
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
Around me still ! and I will smile 

And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend; and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain! 

ANAH. 

Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 

Their bright way through the parted night. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

The clouds from off their pinions fliuging 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

ANAH. 

But if our father see the sight ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

ANAH. 

They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Haste 
To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

ANAH. 

Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 

Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 
Ou Ararat's late secret crest 

A mild and many-colour'd bow, 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shines! and now, behold ! it hath 
lleturn'd to-night, as rippling foam, 

Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home, 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 

ANAH. 

My Azaziel ! 

[Exeicnt. 



SCENE II. 
Enter Irad and Japhet. 

irad. 
Despond not : wherefore wilt thou wander thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars? 
They cannot aid thee. 

JAPHET. 

But they soothe me — now 
Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 44y 


The eternal beauty of undying things. 


For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 


Oh, Anah ! 


Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 


IRAD. 


Sigh to the stars as wolves howl to the moon — 


But she loves thee not. 


I must back to my rest. 


JAPHET. 


JAPHET. 


Alas! 


And so would I, 


IRAD. 


If I could rest. 


And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 


IRAD. 


JAPHET. 


Thou wilt not to our tents, then ? 


I feel for thee too. 


JAPHET. 


IRAD. 


No, Irad; I will to the cavern, whose 


Let her keep her pride, 


Mouth, they say, opens from the internal world, 


Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn ; 


To let the inner spirits of the earth 


It may be, time too will avenge it. 


Forth when they walk its surface. 


JAPHET. 


IRAD. 


Canst thou 


Wherefore so? 


Find joy in such a thought? 


What wouldst thou there ? 


IRAD. 


JAPHET. 


Nor joy, nor sorrow. 


Soothe further my sad spirit 


I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 


With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 


Had love been met with love : as 't is, I leave her 


And I am hopeless. 


To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 


IRAD. 


JAPHET. 


But 't is dangerous ; 


What destinies? 


Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. 


IRAD. 


I must go with thee. 


I have some cause to think 


JAPHET. 


She loves another. 


Irad, no ; believe me, 


JAPHET. 


I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 


Anah ! 


IRAD. 


IRAD. 


But evil things will be thy foe the more, 


No ; her sister. 


As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 


JAPHET. 


Or let mine be with thine. 


What olher? 


JAPHET. 


IRAD. 


No ; neither, Irad : 


That I know not ; but her air, 


I must proceed alone. 


If not her words, tells me she loves another. 


IRAD. 


JAPHET. 


Then peace be with thee ! 


Ay, but not Anah: she but loves her God. 


[E.yzcIrad. 


IRAD. 


JAPHET (sollis). 


Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 


Peace ! I have sought it where it should be found, 


What can it profit thee ? 


In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it: 


JAPHET. 


And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 


True, nothing ; hut 


A weakness of the spirit — listless days, 


I love. 


And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 


IUAD. 


Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 


And so did I. 


Of desolation, and the stillness of 


JAPHET. 


The untrodden forest, only broken by 


And now thou lovest not, 


The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs; 


Or think'st thou lovest not, art thou happier? 


Such is the sullen or the fitful state 


IRAD. 


Of my mind overworn. The earth 's grown wicked, 


Yes. 


And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 


JAPHET. 


A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 


I pity thee. 


To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah! 


IRAD. 


V hen the dread hour denouueed shall open wide 


Me! why? 


The fountains of the deep, how miglitest thou 


JAPHET. 


Have lain within this bosom, folded from 


For being happy, 


The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 


Deprived of that which makes my misery. 


Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vaiuly, 


IRAD. 


While thine Oh, God! at least remit to her 


I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 


Thy wrath! for she is pure amidst the failing, 


And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 


Asa star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 


Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 


Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah! 


Against the metal of the sons of Gain — 


How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not; 


The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 


And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 


As if such useless and discolour'd trash, 


When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 


The refuse of the earth, could be received 


By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 

.i 



448 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit JAPHET. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

NOAH. 

Where is thy brother Japhet? 

SHEM. 

He went forth, 
According to his wont, to meet withlrad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers nightly, 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

NOAH. 

What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days, 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings! Lead the way; 
He must be sought for ! 

SHEM. 

Go not forward, father : 
I will seek Japhet. 

NOAH. 

Do not fear for me: 
All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 

SHEM. 

To the tents of the father of the sisters? 

NOAH. 

No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem. 

SCENE III. 
The mountains. — A cavern, and the rocks of Caucasus. 

JAPHET (solus). 

Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and thou cave, 

Which seem'st unfathomable; and ye mountains, 

So varied and so terrible in beauty; 

Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks, 

And topling trees that twine their roots with stone 

In perpendicular places, where the foot 

Of man would tremble, could he reach them— yes, 

Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days, 

Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, reut, hurl'd 

Before the mass of waters : and yon cave, 

Which seems to lead into a lower world, 

Shall have its depths search'd by the sweeping wave, 

And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 

And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings i who 

Shall weep above your universal grave, 

Save 1 1 Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 

Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 

That I must live beyond ye? Where shall be 

The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 

Scarce less beloved, where I despair' d for her? 



And can it be? — Shall yon exulting peak, 

Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 

No more to have the morning sun break forth, 

And scatter back the mists in floating folds 

From its tremendous brow ? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a crown of many hues? 

No more to be the beacon of the world, 

For angels to alight on, as the spot 

Nearest the stars? And can those words « no more* 

Re meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding? May 

He preserve them, and / not have the power 

To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 

Shall 'scape, to save his kind to be prolong'd, 

To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 

Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 

The salt morass subside into a sphere 

Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 

The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 

Of yet quick myriads of all life? How much 

Rreath will be still'd at once ! All-beauteous world ! 

So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 

With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 

And night by night, thy number'd days and nights. 

I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 

Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 

A portion of thy dusl, I cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 

Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou 

[He pauses. 

[A rusliing sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
cf laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

J.APHET. 

In the name 
Of the Most High, what art thou? 
spirit (laughs). 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

JAPnET. 

By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
spirit (laughs). 

Ha! ha! 

JAPHET. 

By the approaching deluge! by the earth 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lav open all her fountains! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet awful thing of shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh? 

SPIRIT. 

Why wecp'st thou 

JAPHET. 

For earth and all her children. 

SPIRIT. 

Ila ! ha! ha! [Spirit vanislies, 

JAPHET. 

Hew the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 

The coming desolation of au orb, 

On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



449 



How the earth sleeps! and all that in it is 

Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 

Why should they -wake to meet it! What is here, 

Which look like death in life, and speak like things 

Born ere this dying world? They come like clouds 



[Fa 



Spirits pass from the cavern. 



SPIRIT. 

Rejoice! 
The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 

But listen 'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 

Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath, 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save, 
Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 

For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home? 

japhet [coming forward). 
My sire ! 
Earth's seed shall not expire; 

Only the evil shall be put away 
From day. 
Avaunt! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy : ' 
Hence! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place, 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds 
In restless wretchedness along all space ! 

SPIRIT. 

Son of the saved ! 
When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy? — No! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of woe — 



Less goodly in their aspect, in their years, 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father, 

And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave? 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine, 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 
Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son ! 

Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 

Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 

With prayer; 
No more 
Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep salt sources pour'd 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother ; 
Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky; 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation, 
To generate new nations for his use ; 

This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With all companionship of hate and toil, 

Until 

57 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



JAPHET (interrupting them). 
The eternal -will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil : and redeem 

Unto himself all times, and things ; 
And, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell ! 
And to the expiated earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 
Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do -well ! 

SPIRITS. 

And when shall take effect this wondrous spell ? 

JAPHET. 

When the Redeemer cometh; first in pain, 
And then in glory. 

SPIRITS. 

Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain, 

Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men; but still 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 

But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giants' graves. 1 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ! 
The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ! 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken. 

And heaven set wide her windows ; while mankind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 

We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
The mustering thunders of the threatening sphere; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd, 
Their-flashing banners, folded still on high, 
Yet undisplay'd, 
Save to the spirits' all-pervading eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The little shells of ocean's least things, be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd save by the encroaching swell: — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save ; — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
All die, 

1 u And there were giants in those days, and after ; mighty men, 
which were of old men of renown." — Genesis. 



Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters; 
Or floating upward with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid, 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It is decreed, 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ! 
Fly, brethren, fly! 
But still rejoice! 
We fell ! 
They fall! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from Hell! 

[The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards. 

japhet (solus). 
God hath proclaim'd the destiny of earth; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll ' of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
And yet men listen'd not, nor listen; but 
Walk darkling to their doom; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose. 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, « Shine !» and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites ! 
Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
And they will sing! and day will break! Both near, 
So near the awful close! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep : and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows, » — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what? A chaos, 
Which was ere day; and which, renew'd, makes time 
Nothing! for, without life, what are th« hours? 
No more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void: without man, time, as made for man, 
Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
Which has no fountain; as his race will be 
Devour' d by that which drowns his infant world. — 
What have we here? Shapes of both earth and air? 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 

1 The Look of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, is' said by 
them le be anterior lo the flood. 



HE A VEIN AND EARTH. 



45i 



I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the grey mountain, scattering its mist ! 
And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
For which I have so often pray'd — They come! 
Anah! oh God! and with her 

Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and Aholibamah. 



Japhet! 



Lo 



A son of Adam ! 



AZAZIEL. 

What doth the earth-born here, 
While all his race are slumbering? 

JAPHET. 

Angel ! what 
Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high? 

AZAZIEL. 

Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth? 

JAPHET. 

But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
Which is condemn'd : nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos, Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below? 

ANAH. 

Japhet, I cannot answer thee; yet, yet 
Forgive me 

JAPHET. 

May the Heaven, which soon no more 
Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

JAPHET. 

The hour may come when thou 
Mayst know me better; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

SAMIASA. 

Son of the patriarch, who liath ever been 
Upright before his god, whate'er thy griefs, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong? 

JAPHET. 

Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs : but thou 
Say'st well though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — tliese beautiful 
Children of Gain? 

AZAZIEL. 

From what? 

JAPHET. 

And is it so 
That ye too know hot ? Angels ! angels ! ye 



Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment : or at the least 
My sorrow. 

SAMIASA. 

Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

JAPHET. 

And hath not the Most High expounded them? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

So be it! 
If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 

ANAH. 

Sister! sister! speak not 
Thus. 

AZAZIEL. 

Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

ANAH. 

Yes, for thee ; 
I would resign this greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

JAPHET. 

It is for him, then ! for the seraph thou 

Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 

Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 

Between a mortal and immortal, cannot 

Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 

Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 

Are made to minister on high unto 

The Highest; but if he can save thee, soon 

The hour will come in which celestial aid 

Alone can do so. 

ANAH. 

Ah ! he speaks of death. 

SAMIASA. 

Of death to tts' and those who are with us ! 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

JAPHET. 

I grieve not for mysfilf, nor fear; 
I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The arkwhichshall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

And dost thou think that we, 
With Cain's the eldest born of Adam's blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! who was begotten 
In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

JAPHET. 

I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 

Too much of the forefather, whom thou vauntest, 

Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 



452 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



From him -who shed the first, and that a brother's! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not; 't is a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Gainites, save in beauty, 

For all of them are fairest in their favour 

aholibamah (interrupting him). 
And wouldst thou have her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If I partook thy thought, 
And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou mak'st strife. 

JAPHET. 

Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

But 
He slew not Seth; and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him? 

JAPHET. 

Thou speakest well : his God hath judged him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He was our fathers' father : 
The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring:— Shall I blush for him, 
From whom we had our being? Look upon 
Our race; behold their stature and their beauty, 
Their courage, strength, and length of days 

JAPHET. 

They are number'd. — 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Be it so ! but while yet their hours endure, 
I glory in my brethren and our fathers ! 

JAPHET. 

My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah! and thou? 

ANAH. 

Whate'er our God decrees, 
The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavour patiently to obey; 
But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
Of universal vengeance (if such should be), 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! Oh, my sister ! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future without the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprung up with me, like the stars, 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholibamah ! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it : 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

What! hath this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, 
Shaken my sister? Arc we not the loved 
Of seraphs? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 

Bather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 

By hopeless love and heated vigil's. Who 

Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 



And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way? 
Who shall do this? 

JAPHET. 

He whose one word produced them. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Who heard that word ? 

JAPHET. 

The universe, which leap'd 
To life before it. Ah! smilest thou still in scorn? 
Turn to thy seraphs; if they attest it not, 
They are none. 

SAMIASA. 

Aholibamah, own thy God ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 

As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

JAPHET. 

Alas ! what else is love but sorrow? Even 
He who made earth in love, had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

T is said so. 

JAPHET. 

It is even so. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

noah. 

Japhet? What 
Dost thou here with these children of the wicked? 
Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom? 

JAPHET. 

Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earth-born being; and behold, 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

NOAH. 

These are they, then, 
Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain : the sons of Heaven, 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ! 

AZAZIEL. 

Patriarch ! 
Thou hast said it. 

NOAH. 

Woe, woe, woe to such communion ! 
Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind? 

SAMIASA. 

Was not man made in high Jehovah's image ? 
Did God not love what he had made? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love? 

NOAH. 

I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing, 
Even on the very eve of perishing, world, 
Cannot be good. 

AZAZIEL. 

What ! though it were to save? 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



453 



Not ye in all your glory can redeem 

What He who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 

Were your immortal mission safety, 't would 

He general, not for two, though beautiful, 

And beautiful they are, but not the less 

Condemn'd. 

JAPHET. 

Oh father ! say it not. 

NOAH. 

Son ! son ! 
If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be, 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
And better. 

JAPHET. 

Let me die with this, and them! 

NOAH. 

Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt not; He 
Who can, redeems thee. 

SAMIASA. 

And why him «id thee, 
More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 

NOAH. 

Ask Him who made thee greater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 

Enter Raphael the Archangel. 

RAPHAEL. 

Spirits ! 
Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here ! 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
And burn 
In glorious homage with the elected « seven. » 
Your place is heaven. 

SAMIASA. 

Raphael ! 
The first and fairest of the sons of God, 

How long hath this been law, 
That earth by angels must be left untrod? 

Earth! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
The world He loved, and made 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequent mission with delighted pinions ; 

Adoring Him in his least works display'd ; 
Watching this youngest star of His dominions : 
And as the latest birth of His great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe ? 
And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near ? 

RAPHAEL. 

Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir, 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of me. 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin; 



And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud within; 
For blindness is the first-born of excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye stay'd, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 
But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals : Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay, 
And lose eternity by that delay ! 

AZAZIEL. 

And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 

Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 

RAPHAEL. 

1 came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 

In the great name and at the word of God ! 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That which I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space — together 

Let us still -walk the stars. True, earth must die 
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 

And much which she inherits; but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell, his burning will 

Rather than longer worship dared endure , 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone ! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late 1 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as sun to a dependent star, 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 

I loved him — beautiful he was : oh Heaven! 
Save His who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
In which he fell could ever be forgiven! 
The wish is impious : but oh ye ! 
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 
He hath not tempted you, he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt ; 

But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is, 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her, kiss, 
The snake but vanquish'd dust; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven, to break Heaven's law. 
Yet, yet, oh fly! 
Ye cannot die, 
But they 
Shall pass away, 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay, 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
Think how your essence differeth from theirs 



454 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In all but suffering ! Why partake 

The agony to which they must be heirs — 

Born to be plough' d with tears, and sown with cares, 

And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? 

Even had their days been left to toil their path 

Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 

Still they are evil's prey and sorrow's spoil. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Let them fly ! 
I hear the voice which says that all must die, 
Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died; 
And that on high 
An ocean is prepared, 
While from below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems; and of that few, the race of Gain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister ! sJnce it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of woe, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd, 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd, 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs! to your own eternal shore, 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die, 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver : 
Obey him, as we shall obey; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond His will ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of His grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 

T is that an angel's bride disdains to weep — 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 

ANAH. 

And must we die? 
And must I lose thee too, 
Azaziel? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true, 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
But yet depart! 
Ah, why? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief : but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow ! not to us alone, 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 



The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
From his once archangelic throne 
Into some unknown world : 

And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer woe 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
Mayst suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly! fly! 
Being gone, 't will be less difficult to die. 

JAPHET. 

Oh say not so! 
Father! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
Surely celestial mercy Jurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 

NOAH. 

Peace, child of passion, peace! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong! 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Gain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 

Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 

JAPHET. 

Ay, father! but when they are gone, 

And we are all alone, 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 

The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
Who, who our tears, our shrieks, shall then command? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
Oh, God ! be thou a God, and spare 
Yet while 't is time ! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 

Mankind were then but twain, 
Cut they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain, 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their graves, 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 

NOAH. 

Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine 's a crime ! 
Angel! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

RAPHAEL. 

Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye, 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

samiasa. 

It may not be : 
We have chosen, and will endure. 

RAPHAEL. 
Say'st thou? 

AZAZIEL. 

He hath said it, and I say, Amen! 

RAPHAEL. 

Again ! 
Then from this hour, 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



455 



And aliens from your God, 
Farewell ! 

JAPHET. 

Alas ! where shall they dwell? 
Hark ! hark ! Deep sounds, aud deeper still, 

Are howling from the mountain's bosom: 
There 's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 

NOAH. 

Hark ! hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 

Yet dared to soar, 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more ! 

JAPHET. 

The sun ! the sun ! 
He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And a black circle, bound 

His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone ! 
The clouds return into the hues of night, 
Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 

NOAH. 

And lo ! yon flash of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 

It cometh ! hence, away! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and wreckless sides. 

JAPHET. 

Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides! 

NOAH. 

Must we not leave all life to such? Begone ! 

JAPHET. 

• Not I. 

NOAH. 

Then die 
With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 

With just Jehovah's wrath? 

JAPHET. 

Can rage and justice join in the same path? 

NOAH. 

Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even now ? 

RAPHAEL. 

Patriarch, be still a father ! smoothe thy brow : 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink; 

He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters; 

But be, when passion passeth, good as thou, 

Nor perish like Heaven's children with man's daughters. 

AHOLIEAMAH. 

The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite 

For the annihilation of all life. 

Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the eternal might! 



SAMIASA. 

But ours is with thee ; we will bear ye far 

To some untroubled star, 
Where thou and Auah shall partake our lot : 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 

ANAH. 

Oh, my dear father's tents, my place of birth ! 
And mountains, land, and woods, when ye are not, 
Who shall dry up my tears? 

AZAZIEL. 

Thy spirit-lord. 
Fear not, though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 

RAPHAEL. 

Rebel! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword, 
Which chased the first-born out of paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

AZAZIEL. 

It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds ! 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? 

RAPHAEL. 

The moment cometh to approve thy strength ; 
And learn at length 

How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God! 

What have we done ? Yet spare ! 

Hark! even the forest beasts howl forth their pravor ! 

The dragon crawls from out his den. 

To herd in terror innocent with men; 
And the birds scream their agony through air, 
Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair! 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 

RAPHAEL. 

Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of clay, 
I cannot, must not aid you. 'T is decreed ! 

[Exit Raphael. 

JAPHET. 

Some clouds sweep on, as vultures for their prey, 
While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : death hath risen : 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 

AZAZIEL. 

Come, Anah! quit this chao. .-founded prison, 

To which the elements again repair, 

To turn it into what it was: beneath 

The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 

As was the eagle's nestling once within 

Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 

With all its elements ! Heed not their din! 

A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 

Ethereal life, will we explore : 

These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[Azaziel and Samiasa^Zj off, and disappear 
with Anah and Aholibamah. 



456 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


JAPHET. 


The corpses of the world of thy young days ; 


They are gone ! They have disappear d amidst the roar 


Then to Jehovah raise 


Of the forsaken world; and never more, 


Thy song of praise! 


Whether they live, or die -with all earth's life, 


A WOMAN. 


Now near its last, can aught restore 


Blessed are the dead 


Anah unto these eyes. 


Who die in the Lord! 


Chorus of Mortals. 


And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 




Yet, as His word, 


Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind! 


Be the decree adored! 


What, wilt thou leave us all — all — all behind? 


He gave me life — He taketh but 


While safe amidst the elemental strife, 


The breath which is His own : 


Thou sit'st within thy guarded ark ? 


And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 


A mother [offering her infant to japhet). 


Nor longer this weak voice before His throne 


Oh let this child emhark! 


Be heard in supplicating tone, 


I brought him forth in woe, 


Still blessed be the Lord, 


But thought it joy 


For what is past, 


To see him to my bosom clinging so. 


For that which is: 


Why was he born ? 


For all are His, 


What hath he done — 


From first to last — 


My unwean'd son — 


Time — space — eternity — life — death — 


To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn? 


The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 


What is there in this milk of mine, that death 


He made, and can unmake; 


Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 


And shall /, for a little gasp of breath, 


My boy, 


Blaspheme and groan? 


And roll the waters o'er his placid breath? 


No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 


Save him, thou seed of Seth! 


Nor quiver, though the universe may quake ! 


Or cursed be — with him who made 




Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd! 


Chorus of Mortals. 


JAPHET. 


Where shall we fly ? 


Peace ! 't is no hour for curses, but for prayer ! 


Not to the mountains high; 


Chorus of Mortals. 


For now their torrents rush with double roar, 




To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 


For prayer ! ! ! 


Already grasps each drowning hill, 


And where 


Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 


Shall prayer ascend, 




When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 


Enter a Woman. 


And burst, 


WOMAN. 


And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 


Oh, save me, save! 


Until the very deserts know no thirst? 


Our valley is no more : 


Accursed 


My father and my father's tent, 


Be He, who made thee and thy sire ! 


My brethren and my brethren's herds, 


We deem our curses vain,; we must expire ; 


The pleasant trees that o'er our noon-day bent, 


But, as we know the worst, 


And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 


Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 


The little rivulet which freshen'd all 


Before the implacable Omnipotent, 


Our pastures green, 


Since we must fall the same ? 


No more are to be seen. 


If He hath made earth, let it be His shame, 


When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this morn, 


To make a world for torture: — Lo! they come, 


I turn'd to bless the spot, 


The loathsome waters in their rage ! 


And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ;— 


And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb ! 


And now they are not ! — 


The forest's trees (coeval with the hour 


Why was I born? 


When paradise upsprung, 


JAPHET. 


Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 


To die ! in youth to die; 


Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung), 


And happier in that doom, 


So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 


Than to hehold the universal tomb 


Are overtopp'd, 


Which I 


Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd, 


Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 


Which rise, and rise, and rise. 


Why, when all perish, why must I remain? 


Yainiy we look up to the louring skies — 


[The Waters rise: Men fly in every direction; 


They meet the seas, 


many are overtaken by tlie waves; the Chorus 


And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 


of mortals disperses in search of safety up 


Fly, son of Noah, fly, and take thine ease 


the Mountains ; Japhet remains upon a rock, 


In thine allotted ocean-tent; 


while the Ark floats toivards him in the dis- 


And view all floating o'er the element, 


tance. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



457 



m)t ^voptmy of Bante 



T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 

CAMPBELL. 



DEDICATION 



Lady! if for the cold and cloudy clime 

Where I was born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great poet-sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the Souths sublime, 

Thou art the cause; and, howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of beauty and of youth, 

Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah! to what effort would it not persuade? 
Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. 



Ln the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna, in the 
summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that, 
having composed something on the subject of Tasso's 
confinement, he should do the same on Dante's exile— 
the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal 
objects of interest in that city, both to the native and 
to the stranger. 

« On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to 
the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is 
my purpose to continue the poem in various other can- 
tos to its natural conclusion in the present age. The 
reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses 
him in the interval between the conclusion of the Di- 
vina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the 
latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general 
in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have 
had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the 
Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophe- 
cies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza 
rima of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen 
hitherto tried in our language, except it may be by 
Mr Slayley, of whose translation I never saw but one 
extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek; so that 
— if I do not err — this poem may be considered as a 
metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about 
the same length of those of the poet whose name 1 
have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pre- 
sent day, it is difficult for any who have a name, 
good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the 
fortune to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold trans- 



lated into Italian versi sciolti— that is, a poem written 
in the Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without 
regard to the natural divisions of the stanza, or of the 
sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic, 
should chance to undergo the same fate, I would re- 
quest the Italian reader to remember, that when I have 
failed in the imitation of his great « Padre Alighier,» 
I have failed in imitating that which all study and few 
understand; since to this very day it is not yet settled 
what was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto 
of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and 
probable conjecture may be considered as having de- 
cided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
not quite sure that he would be pleased with my suc- 
cess, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, 
are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a 
nation— their literature; and, in the present bitterness 
of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to 
permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, with- 
out finding some fault with his ultramontane presump- 
tion. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what 
would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of 
Milton, or if a translation of Monti, or Pindemonte, or 
Arici, should be held up to the rising generation as a 
model for their future poetical essays. Rut I perceive 
that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, 
when my business is with the English one, and, be they 
few or many, I must take my leave of both. 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



CANTO I. 



Once more in man's frail world! which I had left 
So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale! and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; 
'Midst whom my own bright Reatrice bless'd 1 
My spirit with her light; and to the base 

Of the Eternal Triad! first, last, best, 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod 

. 58 



[58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone, 

That nought ou earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without -which my soul, like the arkless dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 2 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 

With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd; 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain ; and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Ouench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set, 
And the night cometh; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 

The world hath left me, what it found me — pure .; 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure. 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges; and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, 

And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

I would have had my Florence great and free : 3 
Oh Florence! Florence! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 

Wept over : « but thou wouldst not.» As the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas! how bitter in his country's curse 

To him who for that country would expire! 
But did not merit to expire by her, 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, 4 and transfer 

Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted; let my dust 
Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so re-assume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over and repeal'd her doom. 

No,— she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 



Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation-proof, 

The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd and each part 
Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelf s ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulness — 
Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less, 

Though late repented : yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 
My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, 
And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
Though, like old Marius from Minturnae's marsh 
And Carthage' ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and oer-arch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have suf fer'd more than mortal woe, 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glov*s 

With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks. — Great God ! 
Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things comes back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black, 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear; 
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate despair 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare; 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail? 
I am not of this people, nor this age; 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times, when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it : 't is the doom 
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



45 9 



In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 

Their days in endless strife, and die alone; 

Then future thousands crowd around their tomh, 
And pilgrims come from climes where they have known 

The name of him — who now is but a name. 

And wasting homage o'er the sullen slone 
Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame; 

And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 

Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame 
My mind down from its own infinity — 

To live in narrow ways with little men, 

A common sight to every common eye, 
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 

Bipp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 

That make communion sweet, and soften pain — 
To feel me in the solitude of kings, 

Without the power that makes them bear a crown — 

To envy every dove his nest and wings 
Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 

On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 

Within my all-inexorable town, 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, 5 

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 

Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 

A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free : 

I have not vilely found, nor basely sought. — 
They made an exile — not a slave of me. 



CANTO II. 



The spirit of the fervent days of old, 

When words were things that came to pass, and 
thought 

Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
Their children's children's doom already brought 

Forth from the abyss of time which is to be ; 

The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
Shapes that must undergo mortality; 

What the great seers of Israel wore within, 

That spirit was on them, and is on me : 
And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed, 

This voice from out the wilderness, the sin 
Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 

The only guerdon I have ever known. 

Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, 
Italia? Ah! to me such things, foreshown 

With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 

In thine irreparable wrongs my own. 
J We can have but one country, and even yet 

Thou'rt mine— my bones shail be within thy breast, 

My soul within thy language, which once set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide west; 

But I will make another tongue arise 

As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 
The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs, 

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme, 

That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
Shall realise a poet's proudest dream, 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; 

So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. 



This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 

Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
Woe! woe L the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years, which yet supine 

Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
Float from eternity into these eyes; 

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 

But all things are disposing for thy doom; 
The elements await but for the word, 
« Let there be darkness !» and thou grow'st a tomb ! 

Yes! thou, so beautiful shalt feel the sword, 
Thou, Italy! so fair that paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: 

Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice? . 
Thou! Italy! whose ever-golden fields, 
Plough'd bythe sunbeams solely, would suffice 

For the world's granary; thou whose sky heaven gilds 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places summer builds 

Her palace, in whose cradle empire grew, 
And form'd the eternal city's ornaments 

From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew; 

Birth-place of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints 

And finds her prior vision but portray'd 

In feeble colours, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid show, and rock and shaggy shade 

Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 

Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 

The more approach'd, and dearest were they free. 

Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will: 

The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, and Hun, 
Are yet to come, — and on the Imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
Throned on the Palatine, while, lost and won, 

Piome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their god, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the human savages, explore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ; 6 
The chiefless army of the dead, Avhich late 
Beneath the traitor prince's banner met, 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate; 
Had but the royal rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 

Oh ! Piome, the spoiler of the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 



46o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance, 

But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 

Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! floods, whelm them, and for 
ever! 

Why sleep the idle avalanches so, 

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? 

Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? 
Over Cambyses host the desert spread 

Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway 

Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? 

And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 

The dead whose tomb oblivion never knew, 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae? 
j Their passes more alluring to the view 
! Of an invader? is it they, or ye 

That to each host the mountaiu-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 

Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Gould be so : but alone she will not war, 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth, 

In a soil where the mothers bring forth men ! 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth; 

For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ! Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring 

Against oppression; but how vain the toil, 
While still division sows the seeds of woe 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 

Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the avenger stops, 
And doubt and discord step 'fwixt thine and thee, 
And join their strength to that which with thee copes: 

What is there wanting then to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 

Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite! 



CANTO III. 



From out the mass of never-dying ill, 

The plague, the prince, the stranger, and the sword, 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal ; yet it shall go forth ; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth. 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart the sound of archaugelic songs, 



And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 

Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 

Like to a harp-string stricken by the wind, 

The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 

Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 

Earth's dust by immortality refined 
To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff, 

And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 

Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
To thee, my country! whom before, as now, 

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 

And melancholy gift high powers allow 
To read the future; and if now my fire 

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 

I but foretel thy fortunes — then expire; 
Think not that I would look on them and live. 

A spirit forces me to see and speak, 

And for my guerdon grants not to survive; 
My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 

Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 

Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take, 
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom, 

A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy night, 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
Leans sculptured beauty, which death cannot blight; 

And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 

To give thee honour and the earth delight; 
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 

Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 
Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave, 7 

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ; 8 

For thee alone they have no arm to save, 
And all thy recompense is in their fame, 

A noble one to them, but not to thee — 

Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same? 
Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 

The being — and even yet he may be born — 

The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 
And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 

By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; 

And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 

And noxious vapours from Avernus risen, 

Such as all they must breathe who are debased 
By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 

Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 

Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 
Poets shall follow in the path I show, 

And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 

Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, 
And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers : they shall sing 

Many of love, and some of liberty; 
But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing, 

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze 

All free and fearless as the feather' d king, 
But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 

Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince, 

In all the prodigality of praise! 
And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty. 

Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 
And looks on prostitution as a duty. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



46: 



He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 9 
As guest is slave, his thoughts hecome a booty, 
And the first day which sees the chain enthral 
A captive sees his half of manhood gone — 10 
The soul's emasculation saddens all 
His spirit : thus the bard too near the throne, 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 
Or force or forge fit argument of song ! 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's trebles, 
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his 
strain. 
But out of the long file of sonnetteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in vain , 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers," 
And love shall be his torment; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears, 
And Italy shall hail him as the chief 
Of poet lovers, and his higher song 
Of freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
But in a further age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he, 
The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong 
Till they are ashes and repose with me. 
The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire 

Like that of heaven, immortal, and his thought 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire : 
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
And art itself seem into nature wrought 
By the transparency of his bright dream.— 
The second , of a tenderer , sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem : 
He, too, shall sing of arms, and christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red cross 
Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, 
Shall be his sacred argument; the loss 

Of years , of favour, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame ; 
Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
To be Christ's laureate — they reward him well ! 
Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 
Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
Had stung the factions which I strove to quell; 
But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery 



As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom? 
Perhaps lie '11 love, — and is not love in vain 

Torture enough without a living tomb? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
The Bard of chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain tOG many a year, 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unrol 

Through her olympiads two such names, though one 
Of hers be mighty. — And is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 

Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run, 

Their body's self-tuned soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should he, to such a recompense 

Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scatter'd? Yes, and it must be. 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 

These birds of paradise but long to flee 

Back to their native mansion ; soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 

And die, or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
And vulture passions, flying close behind, 

Await the moment to assail and tear; 

And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-birds', triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest care! 
And task most hopeless; but some such have been : 
And if my name amongst the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 

Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest. 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 

Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
breast 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO IV. 



Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin' d the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 

Of passion, and their frailties iink'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without the name ; 
For what is poesy but to create 



462 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 
At an external life beyond our fate, 

And be the new Prometheus of new men, 

Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 
Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 

And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 

Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 
Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ! 

So be it; we can bear. — But thus all they, 

Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power, 
Which still recoils from its encumbering clay, 

Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 

The form which their creations may essay, 
Are bards. The kindled marble's bust may wear 

More poesy upon its speaking brow 

Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 
One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 

Or deify the canvass till it shine 

With beauty so surpassing all below, 
That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 

Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 
Of poesy which peoples but the air 

With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 

Can do no more : then let the artist share 
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 

Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas! 
Despair and genius are too oft connected. 
Within the ages which before me pass, 

Art shall resume and equal even the sway 

Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 

Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive 

The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 
And Roman souls at last again shall live 

In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, 

And temples loftier than the old temples, give 
New wonders to the world; and while still stands 

The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 

A dome, > 2 its image, while the base expands 
Into a fane surpassing all before, 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 

Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
As this, to which all nations shall repair, 

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 

And the bold architect unto whose care 
The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 

Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 

Whether into the marble chaos driven 
His chisel bid the Hebrew, ' 3 at whose word 

Israel left Egypt, slop the waves in stone, 

Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne, A 

Such as i saw them, such as all shall see, 

Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me,' 5 

The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 

Which form the empire of eternity. 
Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms, 

The age which I anticipate, no less 

Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms 
Calamity the nations with distress, 

The genius of my country shall arise, 

A cedar towering o'er the wilderness. 
Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 

Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar, 



Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvass or on stone; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 

Shall feel the power of that which they destroy ; 
And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, l6 who but employ 

The mau of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 

But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and feed, 

Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread on the universal necks that bow; 

And then assure us that their rights are thine? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain? 
Or if their destiny be borne aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce? 
Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, 

I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse, 
The hate of injuries, which every year 
Makes greater and accumulates my curse, 

Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear, 

Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 
The most infernal of all evils here, 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state; 
For such sway is not limited to kings, 
And demagogues yield to them but in date 

As swept off sooner; in all deadly things 

Which make men hate themselves and one another, 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his mother, 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
The faction chief is but the sultan's brother, 

And the worst despot's far less human ape. 
Florence! when this lone spirit which so long 
Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, 

To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 
An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 
Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong. 

Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
Where, whatsoe'er his fate— he still were hers, 

His country's, and might die where he had birth. 
Florence! when this lone spirit shall return 
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 

And seek to honour with an empty urn 
The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain.— Alas! 
« What have I done to thee, my people ? » '7 Stern 

Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
The limits of man's common malice, for 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



463 



All that a citizen could be, I was : 
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'T is done : 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer, 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hour be come 

When truth shall strike their eyes through many a tear 
And make them own the prophet in his tomb. 



NOTES. 



Note i. Page 4^7, line 11. 
'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless d. 
The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronun 
ciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 

Note 2. Page 458, line 9. 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 

u Che sol per Ie belle opre 

Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' altre stelle 

Dentro di lni' si crede il Paradiso, 

Cosi se guard! fiso, 

Pensar ben dei ch'ogni terren piacere.n 

Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Bea- 
trice, strophe third. 

Note 3. Page 458, line 41. 

I would have had my Florence great and free. 
« L' esilio che m' 6 dato onor mi tegno. 



■ Coder tra' buoni e 



di lode degno.» 

Sonnet of Dante; 



in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temper- 
ance, as banished from among men, and seeking refuge 
from Love, who inhabits his bosom. 

Note 4. Page 458, line 57. 
The dust she dooms to scatter. 
« Ut si quis praedictorum ullo tempore in fortiam 
dicti communis p^rvenerit, talis perveniens igne com- 
buratur, sic quod moriatur.n 

Second sentence of Florence against Dante and the 
fourteen accused with him.— The Latin is worthy of the 
sentence. 

Note 5. Page 4^9, line 22. 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 
This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one 
of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. 
Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibel- 
lines. She is described as being « Admodum morosa, 
ut de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum 
esse legimus,» according to Giannozzo Manetti. But 
Lionardo Aretino is scandalized with Boccace, in his life 
of Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry. 
«Oui il Boccacio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli 
esser contrari agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate il 
piu nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figliuoli 
e ufficj della Republica nella sua Citta; e Aristotele che, 
etc., etc. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, 
e ricchezze assai. — E Marco Tullio — e Catone— e Var- 
rone — e Seneca — ebbero moglie ; » etc., etc. It is odd 
that honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of 



Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of Aristotle, are not 
the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' 
Xantippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' 
happiness, whatever they might do to their philosophy 
— Cato gave away his wife — of Varro's we know no- 
thing — and of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to 
die with him, but recovered, and lived several years 
afterwards. But, says Lionardo, « L'uomo e animate 
civile, secondo piace a tutti i filosofi.» And thence con 
eludes that the greatest proof of the animal's civism is 
«la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multiplicata nascr 
la Citta.» 

Note 6. Page 459, line 119. 
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 
See, «Sacco di Roma,» generally attributed to Guic- 
ciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buona- 
parte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trovo pre- 
sente. 

Note 7. Page 460, line g3. 
Conquerors on foreign shores and the far ware. 
Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of 
Savoy, Montecuccoli. 

Note 8. Page 460, line 94. 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 

Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 

Note g. Page 461, line 1. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, etc. 
A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pom- 
pey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in which 
he was slain. 

Note 10. Page 461, line 4- 

And the first day which sees the chain enthral, etc. 

The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

Note 1 1 . Page 46 1 , line 2 1 . 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers. 
Petrarch. 

Note 12. Page 462, line 40. 
A dome, its image. 
The cupola of St Peter's. 

Note i3. Page 462, line 5o. 
His chisel bid the Hebrew. 
The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius If. 
SONETTO 
Di Giovanni Baltista Zappi. 
Chi e costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede gigante ; elepiii illustri, e coute 
Prove dell' arte avanza, ha vive, e pronte 
Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto ? 
Quest, 6 Mosd : ben me '1 diceva il folto 
Onor del mento, e 'I doppio raggio in fronte, 
Quest e Mose, quando scendea del monte, 
K gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 
Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d'intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui. 
E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzaste ? 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui. 

Note 14. Page 462, line 53. 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne. 
The last Judgment in the Sistine chapel. 
Note i5. Page 462, line 56. 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me. 
I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot 
ecollect where) that Dante was so great a favourite of 



464 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Michel Angiolo's, that he had designed the whole of the 
Divina Commedia ; but that the volume containing 
these studies was lost by sea. 

Note 16. Page 45?-, line 76. 
Iter charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ, etc. 
See the treatment of Michel Angiolo by Julius II, and 
his neglect by Leo X. 



Note 17. Page 462, line i3o. 

u What have I done to thee, my people ?» 

« E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolari cit- 

tadini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra 

1' altre una epistola assai lunga che comincia : — 

Popule mi, quid feci tibi.» 

Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino. 



W&t Jslanir; 



CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The foundation of the following story will be found 
partly in the account of the Mutiny of the Bounty, in 
the South Sea, in 1789, and partly in « Mariner's Ac- 
count of the Tonga Islands." 



THE ISLAND. 



I. 
The morning watch was come: the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way; 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough: 
The waters with their world were all before; 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white, 
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight : 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun — 
But, ere he break, a deed is to be done. 

II. 

The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept : 
His dreams were of old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, *and of dangers o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, 
And why should not his slumber be secure? 
Alas! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet; 
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
\ v here summer vears and summer women smile ; 
j Men, without country, who too long estranged, 

Had found no native homo, or found it changed, 
i And, half-uncivilised, preferred the cave 
i Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave; 



The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 

The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 

The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd 

Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 

The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 

In man — to have no master save his mood; 

The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 

The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 

The general garden where all steps may roam, 

Where nature owns a nation as her child, 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 

Their unexploring navy, the canoe; 

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 

Their strangest sight, an European face : — 

Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 

To see again — a sight they dearly earn'd. 

HI. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear . 
Thy limbs are bound, the hayonet at thy breast, 
The hands which trembled at thy voice, arrest : 
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Glares round thee, in the scarce-believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice ; 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 

IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 

Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath :— 

They come not ; they are few, and, overawed, 

Must acquiesce while sterner hearts applaud. 

In vain thou dost demand the cause ; a curse 

Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 

Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, 

The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 

In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming, « Fire !» 

But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 



THE ISLAND. 



465 



Some lurking; remnant of their former awe 
Restrain'd them longer than their hroken law : 
They would not clip their souls at once in blood, 
Hut left thee to the mercies of the flood. 

V. 

« Hoist out the boat!» was now the leader's cry: 

And who dare answer « No » to mutiny, 

In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 

The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power? 

The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 

With its slight plank between thee and thy fate : 

Her only cargo such a scant supply 

As promises the death their hands deny; 

And just enough of water and of bread 

To keep, some days, the dying from the dead. 

Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine, 

But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 

Were added after, to the earnest prayer 

Of those who saw no hope save sea and air; 

And last, that trembling vassal of the pole, 

The feeling compass, navigation's soul. 

VI. 

And now the self-elected chief finds time 

To stun the first sensation of his crime, 

And raise it in his followers — « Ho! the bowl!» 

Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 

« Brandy for heroes !» Burke could once exclaim, — 

No doubt a liquid path to epic fame! 

And such the new-born heroes found it here, 

And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 

« Huzza .* for Otaheite !» was the crv ; 

How strange such shouts from sons of mutiny! 

The gentle island, and the genial soil, 

The friendly hearts, the feast without a toil, 

The courteous manners but from nature caught, 

The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought; 

Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys driven 

Before the mast by every wind of heaven? 

And now, even now, prepar'd with others' woes 

To earn mild virtue's vain desire — repose ? 

Alas ! such is our nature : all but aim 

At the same end, by pathways not the same ; 

Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 

Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 

Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 

Than aught we know beyond our little day. 

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 

Heard through gain's silence, and o'er glory's din : 

Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 

Man's conscience is the oracle of God ! 

VII. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eves ; 
While others scoff d his augur'd miseries, 
Sncer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 
And the slight bark, so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus who steers his prow, 
The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe, 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free ! 



He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 
The surge, is safe— his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer— 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
And told in signs repentant sympathy; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth.' 
But, soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointiug to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, « Depart at once ! delay is death !» 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word recal 
Remorse for the black deed, as yet half done, 
And, what he hid from many show'd to one : 
When Bligh, in stern reproach, demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care?— 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
« 'T is that ! 't is that ! I am in hell ! in heJl!» 
No more he said ; but, urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark: 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell. 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave; 

The breeze now sunk, now whisper' d from his cave 

As on the jEolian harp, his fitful wings 

Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 

With slow despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 

Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 

Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 

That boat and ship shall never meet again'! 

But 't is not mine to tell their tale of grief, 

Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 

Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 

Their manly courage, even when deem'd in vain ; 

The sapping famine, rendering scarce a sou 

Known to his mother in the skeleton; 

The ills that lessen'd still their little store, 

And starved even hunger till he wrung no more ; 

The varying frowns and favours of the deep, 

That uow almost engulphs, then leaves to creep 

With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 

The tide, that yields reluctant to the strong; 

The incessant fever of that arid thirst 

Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 

Above their naked bones, and feels delight 

In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 

And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 

A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs ; 

The savage foe escaped, to seek again 

More hospitable shelter from the main ; 

The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last 

To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 

5 9 



466 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 



We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 

Nor unredress'd ! Revenge may have her own : 

Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 

And injured navies urge their broken laws. 

Pursue we on his track the mutineer, 

Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear, 

Wide o'er the wave — away! away! away! 

Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay; 

Once more the happy shores without a law 

Receive the outlaws Whom they lately saw ; 

Nature, and nature's goddess — Woman — woos 

To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse; 

Where all partake the earth without dispute ; 

And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit;' 

Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams: 

The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 

Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 

Till Europe taught them better than before, 

Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 

But left her vices also to their heirs. 

Away with this! behold them as they were, 

i Do good with nature, or with nature err. 

j « Huzza! for Otaheite!« was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 

I The breeze springs up ; the lately-flapping sail 

• Extends its arch before the growing gale; 
! In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 

! Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease. 

• Thus Argo plougli'd the Euxine's virgin foam; 
But those she wafted still look'd back to home — 
These spurn their country with their rebel bark. 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark; 

And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO II. 



I. 

How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, 2 

When summer's sun went down the coral bay! 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 

For these must bloom where rests the warrior's head; 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon dancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 

1 The) now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which Captain 
Bligh's expedition was undertaken. 

2 The first three sections are taken from an actual son;; of the 
Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is given in Marisep.'s 
Account of the Tonga Islands. Toobonai is not, however, one of 
them ; but was one of those where Christian and the mutineers took 
refuge. I haye altered and added, but have retained as much as pos- 
sible of the original. 



Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these! how happy they 

Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, 

Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives! 

Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, 

And smoothes his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 

II. 

Yes— from the sepulchre we '11 gather flowers, 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 

Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats is heard along our track; 

Anon the torch-light dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recal 

The memory bright with many a festival, 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes. 

Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds ; 

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 

Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 

But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 

The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field ; 

Now let them reap the harvest of their art! 

But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. 

Strike up the dance, the cava bowl fill high, 

Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 

Around our waist the Tappa's white display'd ; 

Thick wreaths shall form our coronals, like spring's, 

And round our necks shall glance the Hooni strings; 

So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile; 

Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. 

To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 

But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 

Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 

Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 

How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 

Bows to your beauties, softened, but intense, 

Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 

Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep : 

We too will see Licoo; but oh! my heart — 

What do I say? to-morrow we depart. 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are nature's growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both; 
The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd 
Who hath not seen dissimulation's reign, 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain? 
Who such would see, may from his lattice view 
The old world more degraded than the new,— 



THE ISLAND. 



467 



Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave, 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 



Such was this ditty of tradition's days, 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound, whose charm is half divine; 
Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony; 
A boy Achilles, with the Centaur's lyre 
In hand, to teach hirn to surpass his sire: 
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave, 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Than all the columns conquest's minions rear; 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For sages' labours or the student's dream; 
Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, — 
The first, the freshest bud of feeling's soil. 
Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude — 
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
Who came and conquer'd; such, wherever rise 
Lands which no foes destroy or civilize, 
Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 
Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm, 

The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 

Where sate the songstress with the stranger boy, 

Who taught her passion's desolating joy, 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 

O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 

Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 

With such devotion to their ecstasy, 

That life knows no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 

Match'd with that burst of nature even in thought: 

And all our dreams of better life above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 

Vlf. 
There sate the gentle savage of the wild, 
In growth a woman, though in years a child, 
As childhood dates within our colder clime, 
Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime ! 
The infant of an infant world, as pure 
From nature — lovely, warm, and premature ; 
Dusky like night, but night with all her stars, 
Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
A form like Aphrodite's in her shell ; 
With all her loves around her on the deep, 
Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 



Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make its way, and all but speak; 

The sun-born blood diffused her neck, and threw 

O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue, 

hike coral reddening through the darken'd wave, 

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the Southern Seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies, 

To bear the bark of others' happiness, 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less : 

Her wild and warm, yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon forgot : 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 

O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hill, 

Restore their surface, in itself so still, 

Until the earthquake tear the Naiad's cave, 

Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 

And crush the living waters to a mass, 

The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 

And must their fate be hers? The eternal change 

But grasps humanity with quicker range; 

And they who fall, but fail as worlds will fall, 

To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 



VIII. 

And who is he ! the blue-eyed northern child 

Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 

The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, 

Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas; 

Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind, 

The tempest-born in body and in mind, 

His young eyes opening on the ocean foam, 

Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home. 

The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 

The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 

His bark was borne, the sport of wave and air ; 

A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 

Nursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 

Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 

Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 

As bold a rover as the sands have seen, 

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 

As Ishmael wafted on his desert-ship ; » 

Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud Cacique ; 

On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek ; 

Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 

Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 

For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 

If rear'd to such ean find no further prey 

Beyond itself, and must retrace its way, 2 

Plunging for pleasure into pain ; the same 

Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame. 

1 The " ship of ihe desert '1 is the Oriental figure for the camel or 
dromedary, and they deserve the metaphor well.; the former for his 
endurance, the latter for his swiftness. 

2 k Lucullus, when frugality could charm. 

Had wasted turnips in his Sabine farm." — Pope. 



468 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A humbler slate anrl discipline of heart 
Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart :' 
But grant liis vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne! 

IX. 

Thousmilest, — these comparisons seem high 
I To those who scan all things with dazzled eye; 

Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 

Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 

With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby, 

Thou smilest!— Smile; 't is better thus than sigh ; 

Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 

A soaring spirit ever in the van, 

A patriot hero or despotic chief, 

To form a nation's glory or its grief; 

Born under auspices which make us more 
j Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
! But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

A blooming boy, a truant mutineer, 

The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 



By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 

Neuha, the sun-flower of the Island daughters, 

High-born (a birth at which the herald smiles, 

Without a scutcheon for these secret isles) 

Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 

The naked knights of savage chivalry, 

Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore, 

And thine, — I've seen, — Achilles! do no more. 

She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came 

In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm ; 

But, when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 

And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 

Making the very billows look less free; — 

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 

Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow, 

Swift gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 

Light as a Nereid in her ocean-sledge, 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk 

Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk: 

The anchor dropp'd, it lay along the deep, 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 

Like summer-bees that hum around his mane. 

XL 

The white man landed, — need the rest be told? 
The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires. 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 

1 The Consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which de- 
ceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal ; thereby accomplishing' an 
achievement almost unrivalled in military annals. The first intelli- 
gence of his return, to Hannibal, was the sight of Asdrubal's head 
ihrown into his camp. When Flannibal saw this, he exclaimed with a 
sigh, that u Rome would now be the mistress of the world. » And yet 
to this victory of Nero's it might be owing that his imperial name- 
sake reigned at all ! But the infamy of the one has eclipsed the 
glory of the other. When the name of a Nero » is heard, who 
thinks of the Consul ? But such are human things. 



Their union grew : the children of the storm 

Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 

While these in turn admired the paler glow, 

Which seem'd so white in climes that knew' no snow. 

The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, 

The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 

The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 

Which stemm'd the studded Archipelago, 

O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 

The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils; 

The palm, the loftiest Dryad of the woods, 

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 

While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 

Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast; 

The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit; 

The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, yields 

The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 

And bakes its unadulterated loaves 

Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 

And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 

A priceless market for the gathering guest ; 

These, with the luxuries of seas and woods, 

The airy joys of social solitudes, 

Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 

Of those who were more happy if less wise, 

Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 

And civilized civilisation's son ! 

XII. 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 

Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair : 

Both children of the isles, though distant far ; 

Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 

Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes, 

Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 

Between us and my childhood's sympathy, 

Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. 

He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue, 

Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 

Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 

And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 

Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine, 

Adored the Alp and loved the Apennine, 

Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 

Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 

But 't was not all long ages' lore, nor all 

Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; 

The infant rapture still survived the boy, 

And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy, 1 

Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 

And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 

Forgive me, Homer's universal shade ! 

Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 

The North and nature taught me to adore 

Your scenes sublime from those beloved before. 



1 When very young, about eight years of age, after an attack of 
the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed by medical advice into 
the Highlands. Here I passed occasionally some summers, and from 
this period I date my love of mountainous countries. I can never 
forget the effect a few years afterwards in England, of the only thing 
I had long seen, even in miniature, of a mountain, in the Malvern 
Hills. After I returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every 
afternoon at sunset, with a sensation which I cannot describe. This 
was boyish enough ; but I was then only thirteen years of age, and 
it was in the holidays. 



THE ISLAND. 



46 9 



XIII. 

The love, -which maketh all things fond and fair, 

The youth, which makes one rainbow of the air, 

The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 

The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 

The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 

Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 

United the half savage and the whole, 

The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 

No more the thundering memory of the fight 

Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 

No more the irksome restlessness of rest 

Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest, 

Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 

Darts for a victim over all the sky ; 

His heart was tamed to,lhat voluptuous state, 

At once elysian and effeminate, 

Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 

These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 

Yet, when their ashes in their nook are laid, 

Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade? 

Had Csesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 

Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 

And what have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 

Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 

The gory sanction of his glory stains 

The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 

Though glory, nature, reason, freedom, bid 

Roused millions do what single Brutus did, — 

Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 

From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long, 

Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 

And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 

When but a word of freedom would dispel 

These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 
Rapt in the fond forge tfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud, 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glery, and her joy; 
With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm. 
Changing its hues with bright variety, 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move, 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

XV. 

Here in this grotto of the wave-worn shore. 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er time. 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide, 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide ; 
Their clock the sun in his unbounded tower ; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 



The nightingale their only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell; ' 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep, 
P»ut fiery, full and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft, 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave, 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking lirst along the skies, 
And then, for light, into each other's eyes, 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
And asking if indeed the day were done ? 

XVI. 

And let not this seem strange ; the devotee 

hives not in earth, but in his ecstasy; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, — 

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 

Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod, 

Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below, 

The other better self, whose joy or woe 

Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 

Wrapt in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile, 

Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How often we forget all time, when lone, 

Admiring nature's universal throne, 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of hers to our intelligence! 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 

Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears? 

No, no : — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 

Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 

Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 

And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 

In the young moments ere the heart is taught 

Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 

All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

xvi r. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echo'd their dim light to the musteriug stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene; 
Lovely as love— the spirit! when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell 
Thau breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell, 2 

1 The now well-known story of the loves of the nightingale and 
rose need not be more than alluded to, being sufficiently familiar to 
the Western as to the Eastern reader. 

2 If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his chimney- 
piece, he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the text should ap- 
pear obscure, he will find in « Gebir n the same idea better expressed 
in two lines.— The poem I never read, bnt have heard the lin-es 
quoted by a more recondite reader— who seems to be of a different, 
opinion from the Editor of the Quarterly Review, who qualified it, 
in his answer to the Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, as trash of 
the worst and most insane description. It is to Mr Landor, the au- 
thor of Gebir, so qualified, and some Latin poems, which vie with 
Marlial or Catullus in obscenity, that the immaculate Mr Southey 
addresses his declamation against impurity ! 



47° 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As, far divided from his parent deep, 
The sea-horn infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic-bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest, 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 

Not such as would have been a lover's choice 

In such an hour to break the air so still ! 

No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 

Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 

Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 

With echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 

Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 

Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 

Exhaling all his solitary soul, 

The dim though large -eyed winged anchorite, 

Who peals his dreary prean o'er the night ; — 

But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 

As ever startled through a sea-bird's bill ; 

And then a pause, and then a hoarse « Hillo 1 

Torquil! my boy ! what cheer? Ho, brother, ho!» 

« Who hails ?» cried Torquil, following with his eye 

The sound. « Here 's one !» was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 

But here the herald of the self-same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 

Not like a « bed of violets» on the gale, 

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 

Born from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odours over either zone, 

And, puff d where'er winds rise or waters roll, 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd, 

And reek'd, 'midst mountain billows unabash'd, 

To iEolus a constant sacrifice, 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it? — I may err, 

But deem him sailor or philosopher. 1 

Sublime Tobacco ! which from east io west 

Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; 

Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 

Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 

Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 

When tipp'd with amber, yellow, rich, and ripe ; 

Like other charmers, wooing the caress 

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 

A human figure broke the solitude, 

Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 

A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 

Such as appears to rise from out the deep, 

When o'er the Line the merry vessels sweep, 

' Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, was a 
veterate smoker, — even to pipes beyond computation. 



And the rough Saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ;' 
And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in a breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over tightly bound, or nicely spread ; 
And, stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
Which two worlds bless for civilising both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders, broad 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode, 
But brawny as the boar's ; and, hung beneath, 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
Or lost or worn away; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
Though one miss'd fire the other would go off); 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accoutrements, as night 
Survey'd him in his ga.rb heteroclite. 

XXI. 

« What cheer, Ben Bunting ?» cried (when in full view 

Our new acquaintance) Torquil ; « aught of new ?» 

« Ey, ey,» quoth Ben, «not new, but news enow; 

A strange sail in the offing." — « Sail' and how? 

What! could you make her out? It cannot be ; 

I 've seen no rag of canvas on the sea.» 

« Belike,» said Ben, « you might not from the bay, 

But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 

I saw her in the doldrums; for the wind 

Was light and baffling."— « When the sun declined 

Where lay she ? had she anchor'd ?»— « No, but still 

She bore down on us, till the wind grew still. » 

« Her flag?w— « I had no glass; but, fore and aft, 

Egad, she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 

« Arm'd?» — « I expect so;— sent on the look-out;— 

'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 

« About? — Whate'er may have us now in chase, 

We 'Jl make no running fight, for that were base ; 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

« Ey, ey ; for that, 't is all the same to Ben.» 

« Does Christian know this?»— « Ay; he 's piped all 

hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted."— « That's but fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 

1 This rough but jovial ceremony, used in crossing the Line, has 
been so often and so well described, that it need not be more than 
alluded to. 



THE ISLAND. 



47 



My Neuha ! all ! and must my fate pursue 

Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ! 

But whatsoe'er betide, ah! Neuha, now 

Unman me not; the bour will not allow 

A tear; I m thine, whatever intervenes !» 

« Right, » quoth Ben, « that will do for the marines. 



CANTO III. 



The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom, 

Which robes the cannon as be wings a tomb, 

Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upward driven 

Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven: 

The rattling roar which rung in every volley 

Had left the valleys to their melancholy; 

No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom; 

The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom; 

The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed or ta'en, 

Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 

Few, few, escaped, and these were hunted o'er 

The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 

No further home v. as theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 

Once renegades to that which gave them birth; 

Track'dlike wild beasts, like them they sought the wild, 

As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 

But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, 

And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 

Far over ocean in his fiercest moods, 

When scaling his enormous crag, the wave 

Is hurl'd down headlong like the foremost brave, 

And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 

Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 

But now at rest, a little remnant drew 

Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few; 

But still their weapons in their hands, and still 

With something of the pride of former will, 

As men not all unused to meditate, 

And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 

Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 

And dared as what was likely to have been; 

Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 

Not pardon'd, but unsought-for or forgot, 

Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 

Might still be miss'd amidst that world of waves, 

Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 

And felt — the vengeance of their country's law. 

Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 

No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 

Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 

Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 

Proscribed even in their second country, they 

Were lost; in vain the world before them lay; 

All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 

Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice; 

But what avail'd the club and spear and arm 

Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm, 

1 u That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't believe it,n 
is an old saying, and one of the few fragments of former jealousies 
which still survive (in jest only) l.etween these gallant services. 



The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd ? 
Dug, like,a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave ! ' 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do; 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 

III. 
Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn. 
A little stream came tumbling from the height, 
And straggling into ocean as it might, 
Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray, 
And gush'd from cleft to crag with saltless spray; 
Close on the wild wide ocean, yet as pure 
And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 
Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep, 
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
While far below the vast and sullen swell 
Of ocean's Alpine azure rose and fell. 
To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 
Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 
Their arms aside to revel in its dew; 
Gool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory stains 
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains; 
Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd sadly 

round, 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless : — but silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 

IV. 

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue, once spread 
Along his cheek, was livid now as lead; 
His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow, 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips compress'd 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute, 
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally — his worst wound was within : 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair 
Show'd that his faintness came not from despair, 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 

1 Archidamus, King of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, when he saw 
a machine invented for the casting of stones and darts, exclaimed 
that it was the « grave of valour. » The same story has been told of 
some knights on the first application of gunpowder ; but the original 
anecdote is in Plutarch. 



47 2 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 

And hind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe — 

A trophy which survived an hundred fights, 

A beacon which had cheer d ten thousand nights. 

The fourth and last of this deserted group 

Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then stoop 

To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 

Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 

Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 

Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 

And then his former movements would redouble, 

With something between carelessness and trouble. 

This is a long description, but applies 

To scarce five minutes past before the eyes; 

But yet what minutes! Moments like to these 

Bend men's lives into immortalities. 



At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 

Who flutter d over all things like a fan, 

More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 

And die at once than wrestle with despair, 

Exclaim'd « God damn !» Those syllables intense, 

Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 

As the Turk's « Allah !» or the Roman's more 

Pagan « Proh Jupiter !» was wont of yore 

To give their first impressions such a vent. 

By way of echo to embarrassment. 

Jack was embarrass'd, — never hero more, 

And as he knew not what to say, he swore; 

Nor swore in vain : the long congenial sound 

Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound ; 

He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 

But merely added to the oath his eyes; 

Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete — 

A peroration I need not repeat. 



VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 
Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
Of passion reeking from his clouded face; 
Till lifting up again his sombre eye, 
It glanced on Torquil who lean'd faintly by. 
« And is it thus 7 " he cried, « unhappy boy ! 
And thee, too, tliee — my madness must destroy. » 
He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 
Yet dabbled with his lately-flowing blood ; 
i Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
Enquired into his state; and when he heard 
The wound was slighter than he deem'd orfear'd. 
A moment's brightness pass d along his brow, 
As much as such a moment would allow. 
« Yes,» he exclaim'd, « we are taken in the toil, 
But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy. 
And I must fall; but have you strength to fly? 
T would he some comfort still, could you survive; 
Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
Oh! for a sole canoe! though but a shell, 
To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 
For me, my lot is what I sought; to be, 
In iife or death, the fearless and the free.» 



VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew, 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew : 
Onward it came— and, lo ! a second follow'd— 
Now seen — now hid— where ocean's vale was hollo w'd; 
And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray; 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below, 
Which flings it broad and boiling, sheet on sheet, 
And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet : 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
The barks, like small birds through a louring sky. 
Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
The wave, of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a Nereid from her shell to land, 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy? 
Neuha, — the fond, the faithful, the adored, 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd; 
And smiled, and wept, and near and nearer clasp'd, 
As if to be assured 't was him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight : 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
Tiiat rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 

Were not unmoved ; who are when hearts are greeting' 

Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 

With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 

Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 

In hopeless visions of our better days, 

When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray, 

« And but for me!» he said, and turn'd away; 

Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 

A lion looks upon his cubs again; 

And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 

As heedless of his further destinies. 



X. 

But brief their time for good or evil thought; 

The billows round the promontory brought 

The plash of hostile oars — Alas! who made 

That sound a dread? All round them seem'd array'd 

Against them save the bride of Toobonai : 

She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay, 

Of the arm'd boats which hurried to complete 

The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 

Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 

Embark' d their guests, and launch'd their light canoes; 



THE ISLAND. 



4y3 



In one placed Christaiu and his comrades twain ; 
Dut she and Torqnil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in iier own — Away! away! 
They clear the hreakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
The gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
To baffle the pursuit — Away! away! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
And more than life or lives to Neuha : love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment! — Fiy, thou light ark, fly! 



CANTO IV. 



White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering betweeu the dun wave and the sky, 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts nur eye amidst the rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 

II. 

Not distant from the isle of Toohonai, 

A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 

The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind, 

Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 

And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun, 

Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun; 

There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 

The startled echo of the ocean bird, 

Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 

The feathcr'd fishers of the solitude. 

A narrow segment of the yellow sand 

On one side forms the outline of a strand : 

Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell, 

Steals to the deep whereiu his parents dwell; 

Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 

But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray. 

The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 

Gave mariners a shelter and despair, 

A spot to make the saved regret the deck 

Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 

Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 

To shield her lover from his following foes; 

But all its secrets was not told; she knew 

In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

III. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 
The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's lot, 
By her command removed, to strengthen more 
The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 
This he would have opposed : but with a smile 
She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 



And bade him « speed and prospers She would taki 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star, 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Bight on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 

They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 

And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 

Witli nought but soundless waters for its base, 

Within an hundred boats' length was the foe, 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe? 

This Torquil ask'd with half-upbraiding eye, 

Which said— « Has Neuha brought me here to die ' 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave?* 

IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 

Neuha, and, pointing to the approaching foes, 

Cried, « Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow!" 

Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 

There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 

Chains in his eye and menace in his ear : 

With vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 

Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 

Headlong he leap'd — to him the swimmer's skill 

Was native, and now all his hope from ill ; 

But how or where ? He dived, and rose no more; 

The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 

There was no landing on that precipice, 

Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 

They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 

But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 

The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face, 

Since their first plunge, recall'd a single trace ; 

The little whirl which eddied, and slgiht foam, 

That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 

White as a sepulchre above the pair, 

Who left no marble (mournful as an heir), 

The quiet proa, wavering o'er the tide, 

Was all that told of Torquil and his bride; 

And but for this alone the whole might seem 

The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 

They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd away, 

Even superstition now forbade their stay. 

Some said he had not plunged into the wave, 

But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave; 

Others, that something supernatural 

Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall; 

While all agreed, that in his cheek and eye 

There was the dead hue of eternity. 

Still as their oars receded from the crag, 

Bound every weed a moment would they lag, 

Expectant of some token of their prey ; 

But no — he'd melted from them like the spray. 



And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
Following the Nereid? Had they ceased to weep 
For ever? or, received in coral caves, 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 

60 



474 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair, 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd, in air? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leap'd? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 

Follow'd: her track beneath her native sea 

"Was as a native's of the element, 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 

Which struck and flash' d like an amphibious steel. 

Closely, and less expert to trace 

The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas, 

Pursued her liquid steps with art and ease. 

Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 

The way — then upward soar'd — and, as she spread 

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 

Laugh'd, and the sound was answer' d by the rocks. 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave l 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 

In some transparent ocean holiday, 

When all the finny people are at play), 

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise; 

Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut 

And form a something like a Triton's hut, 

For all was darkness for a space, till day 

Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray; 

As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 

The dusty monuments from light recoil, 

Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 

The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 

VII. 
Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo; 
A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
This mantle kept it dry; then from a nook 
Of the same plantain leaf, a flint she took, 
A few shrunk wither" d twigs, and from the blade 
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 
And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy; 
The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
The architrave some earthquake might erect ; 
The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd, 
When the poles crash'd and water was the world; 
Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre; 
The fretted piunacJe, the aisle, the nave, 2 
Were there, all scoop'd by darkness from her cave. 

1 Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be found in 
the glh chapter of Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands. I have 
taken the poetical liberty to transplant it to Toolonai, the last island 
where any distinct account is lefl of Christian and his comrades. 

2 This may seem too minute for the general outline (in Mariner's 
Account) from which it is taken. But few men have travelled with- 
out seeing something of the kind — on land, that is. Without advert- 
ing to Elora, in Mungo Park's last journal (if my memory do not err, 



There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 
And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
Thus nature play'd with the stalactites, 
And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII. 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared; 
The mat for rest; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal-oil to fence against the dew; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill : 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light. 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower; 
And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast; 
And, suited to her soft caresses, told 
An eldeu tale of love, — for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born : ■ 
How a young Chief, a thousand moons ago, 
Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
Into the cave which round and o'er tbem lay; 
How, in some desperate feud of after time, 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe; 
How, when the storm of war was still, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more: 
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 

for it is eight years since I read the book) he mentions having 
met with a rock or mountain so exactly resembling a Gothic cathe- 
dral, that only minute inspection could convince him that it was a 
work of nature. 

1 The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek Anthology, or 
its translation into most of the modern languages : — 
Whoe'er thou art, thy master see, 
He was, or is, or is to be. 



THE ISLAND. 



4 7 5 



Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 

Then paused upon their paddles from the shock, 

When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 

A goddess rise — so deern'd they in their awe; 

And their companion, glorious hy her side, 

Proud and exulting in his mermaid hride : 

And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore, 

With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore; 

How they had gladly lived and calmly died, 

And why not also Torquil and his bride? 

Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 

Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess 

This tale; enough that all within that cave 

Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 

Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 

When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 

Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and press'd 

The kindling ashes to his kindled breast. 1 

The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 

As much unheeded as if life were o'er; 

Within, their hearts made all their harmony, 

Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

X. 

And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 

Which left them exiles of the hollow rock 

Where were they? O'er the sea for life they plied, 

To seek from heaven the shelter men denied. 

Another course had been their choice— but where? 

The wave which bore them still, their foes would bear, 

Who, disappointed of their former chase, 

In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 

Eager with anger, their strong arms made way, 

Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 

They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 

In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 

No further chance or choice remain'd; and right 

For the first further rock which met their sight 

They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 

And yield as victims, or die sword in hand; 

Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 

Would still have battled for that scanty crew; 

But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 

Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain; 

For what were simple bow and savage spear 

Against the arms which must be wielded here? 

XL 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene, 

Where few but nature's footsteps yet had beeu ; 

Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 

Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity, 

When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 

To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 

They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 

Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 

But, ah! how different! 't is the cause makes all, 

Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 

O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, 

Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon d hence ; 

No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 

Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 

No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 

No heroes envy them their monument ; 

1 The tradiliou is attached to the story of Etoisa, that when her 
body was lowered into the grave of Abelard (who had been buried 
twenty years), he opened his arms to receive her. 



However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 
The leader of the baud he had undone ; 
Who, born perchance for better things, had set 
His life upon a cast which lingerd yet : 
But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
The chances were in favour of his fall, 
And such a fall! But still he faced the shock, 
Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 

XII. 

The boat drew nigh, well arm d, and firm the crew, 

To act whatever duty bade them do; 

Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind : 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's thau a native foe, 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once beeu Britain's still. 

They hail'd him to surrender — no reply; 

Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 

They hail'd again — no answer; yet once more 

They offer'd quarter louder than before. 

The echoes only, from the rock's. rebound, 

Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 

And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 

While the rocks rattled with the bullets' knell, 

Which peal'd in vain, and flatten d as they fell; 

Then flew the only answer to be given 

By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 

After the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nigher, 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, « Now fire!» 

And, ere the word upon the echo died, 

Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdain d all further efforts, save to close. 

But steep the crag, and all without a path. 

Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath; 

While placed 'midst clefts the least accessible, 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 

The three maintain d a strife which must not yield, 

In spots where eagles might have choseu to build. 

Their every shot told; while the assailant fell, 

Dash'd on the shingles like the limpid shell; 

But still enough survived, and mounted still, 

Scattering their numbers here and there, until 

Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 

Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait ; 

Yet to the very last they battled well, 

And not a groan iuform'd their foes who fell. 

Christian died last — twice wounded; and once more 

Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 

Too late for life, but not too late to die, 

With though a hostile hand to close his eye. 

A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 

The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 

The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 

Some passion which a weakly gesture spake, - 

He beckon'd to the foremost who drew nigh, 

But, as they ncar'd, he rear'd his weapon high— 



4 7 6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His lust ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 
He lore the topmost button of his vest, 1 
Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 
As his foe fell; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 
Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 
Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook; 
Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 
His body crush'd into one gory mass, 
With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 
Vet reck'd, the remnant of himself and deeds; 
Some splinters of his weapons (to the last, 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 
Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
The rest was nothing — save a life mis-spent, 
And soul — but who shall answer where it went? 
T is ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 

XIII. 

The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 

The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 

Chain'd on the deck, where dnce, a gallant crew, 

They stood with honour, were the wretched few 

Survivors of the skirmish on the isle; 

But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 

Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 

While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing, 

Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, 

And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 

But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 

Eternal with unsympathetic flow; 

Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on, 

And sprung the flying-fish against the sun, 

Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 

To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 
T was morn; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
It flapp'd, it filled, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 
While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie : 
But no! it came not; fast and far away 
The shadow lesseu'd as it clear'd the bay. 



1 In Thibaclt's Account of Frederick II of Prussia, there is a sin- 
gular relation of a young Frenchman, who, with his mistress, ap- 
peared to he of some rank. He enlisted and deserted at Scweidnitz ; 
and, after a desperate resistance, was retaken, having killed an of- 
ficer, who attempted to seize him after he was wounded, by the dis- 
charge of his musket loaded with a button of his uniform. Some cir- 
cumstances on his court-martial raised a great interest amongst his 
judges who wished to discover his real situation in life, which he 
offered to disclose, but to the King only, to whom he requested per- 
mission to write. This was refused, and Frederick was filled with 
the greatest indignation, from baffled curiosity or some other mo- 
tive, when he understood that his request had been denied. — See 
Tiiioault's work, vol. ii. — (I quote from memory.) 



She gazed, and Hung the sea-foam from her eyes, 

To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 

On the horizon verged the distant deck, 

Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 

Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy! 

Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy 

Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 

That happy love could augur or recal ; 

Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 

His bounding Nereid over the broad sea ; 

Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 

Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 

Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 

That eve the strangers chased them from the shore ; 

But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 

Ilegain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 

Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 

Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view, 

No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home ! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

With sounding bells, and heralded tlieir way ; 

The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 

And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 

And how escaped? The tale was told; and then 

One acclamation rent the sky again ; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Tlieir sanctuary the name of «Neuha's cave.» 

An hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 

Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 

The feast in honour of tlie guest, return'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd; 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 



APPENDIX. 



EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE BY CAPTAIN BL1GU. 

On the 27th of December it blew a severe storm of 
wind from the eastward, in the course of which we suf- 
fered greatly. One sea broke away the spare yards and 
spars out of the starboard main-chains; another broke 
into the ship and stove all the boats. Several casks of 
beer that had been lashed on deck broke loose, and were 
washed overboard; and it was not without great risk 
and difficulty that we were able to secure the boats 
from being washed away entirely. A great quantity of 
our bread was also damaged and rendered useless, for 
the sea had stove in our stern, and filled the cabin with 
water. 

On the 5th of January, 1788, we saw the island of 
Teneriffe about twelve leagues distant, and next day, 
being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road of Santa 
Cruz. There we took in the necessary supplies, and, 
having finished our business, sailed on the 10th. 

I now divided the people into three watches, and gave 
the charge of the third watch to Mr Fletcher Christian, 



THE ISLAND. 



477 



one of the mates. I have always considered this a de- 
sirable regulation when circumstances will admit of it, 
and I am persuaded that unbroken rest not only con- 
tributes much towards the health of the ship's company, 
but enables them more readily to exert themselves in 
cases of sudden emergency. 

As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stopping, 
I reduced the allowance of bread to two-thirds, and 
caused the water for drinking to be filtered through 
drip-stones, bought at Teneriffe for that purpose. I now 
acquainted the ship's company of the object of the 
voyage, and gave assurances of certain promotion to 
every one whose endeavours should merit it. 

On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south la- 
titude 29 38', and 44° 44'' west longitude, we bent new 
sails, and made other necessary preparations for en- 
countering the weather that was to be expected in a 
high latitude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil 
was about 100 leagues. 

On the forenoon of Sunday, the 2d of March, after 
seeing that every person was clean, divine service was 
performed, according to my usual custom on this day. 
1 gave to Mr Fletcher Christian, whom I had before 
directed to take charge of the third watch, a written 
order to act as lieutenant. 

The change of temperature soon began to be sensibly 
felt; and, that the people might not suffer from their 
own negligence, I supplied them with thicker clothing, 
as better suited to the climate. A great number of 
whales of an immense size, with two spout-holes on the 
back of the head, were seen on the nth. 

On a complaint made to me by the master, I found 
it necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one of the sea- 
men, with two dozen of lashes, for insolence and muti- 
nous behaviour, which was the first time that there was 
any occasion for punishment on board. 

We were off Cape St Diego, the eastern part of the 
Terre de Fuego, and the wind being unfavourable, I 
thought it more advisable to go round to the eastward 
of Staten-laud than to attempt passing through Straits le 
Maire. Wc passed New Year's Harbour and Cape St John, 
and on Monday the 3ist Mere in latitude 6o° 1' south. 
But the wind became variable, and we had bad weather. 

Storms, attended witU a great sea, prevailed until the 
12th of April. The ship began to leak, and required 
pumping every hour, which was no more than we had 
reason to expect from such a continuance of gales of 
wind and high seas. The decks also became so leaky 
that it was necessary to allot the great cabin, of which 
I made little use except in fine weather, to those people 
who had not births to hang their hammocks in, and by 
this means the space between decks was less crowded. 

With all this bad weather we had the additional mor- 
tification to find, at the end of every day, that we were 
losing ground; for notwithstanding our utmost exer- 
tions, and keeping on the most advantageous tacks, we 
did little better than drift before the wind. On Tuesday 
the 22d of April, we had eight down on the sick list, 
and the rest of the people, though in good health, were 
greatly fatigued; but I saw, with much concern, that it 
was impossible to make a passage this way to the So- 
ciety Islands, for we had now been thirty davs in a tem- 
pestuous ocean. Thus the season was too far advanced 
for us to expect better weather to enable us to double 
Cape Horn; and, from these and other considerations, 
1 ordered the helm to be put a-\veather, and bore away 



for the Cape of Good Hope, to the great joy of every one 
on board. 

We came to an anchor on Friday the 2 3d of May, in 
Simon's Bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. The 
ship required complete caulking, for she had become so 
leaky, that we were obliged to pump hourly in our pas- 
sage from Cape Horn. The sails and rigging also re- 
quired repair, and, on examining the provisions, a con- 
siderable quantity was found damaged. 

Having remained thirty-eight days at this place, and 
my people having received all the advantage that could 
be derived from refreshments of every kind that could 
be met with, we sailed on the 1st of July. 

A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high sea ; it 
increased after noon with such violence, that the ship 
was driven almost forecastle under, before we could get 
the sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, and 
the top-gallant mast got down upon deck, which re- 
lieved her much. We lay to all night, and in the morn- 
ing bore away uuder a reefed foresail. The sea still 
running high, in the afternoon it became very unsafe to 
stand on; we therefore lay to all night, without any ac- 
cident, excepting that a man at the steerage was thrown 
over the wheel and much bruised. Towards noon the 
violence of the storm abated, and we again bore away 
under the reefed foresail. 

In a few days we passed the island of St Paul, where 
there is good fresh water, as I was informed by a Dutch 
captain, and also a hot spring, which boils fish as com- 
pletely as if done by a fire. Approaching to Van Die- 
men's land, we had much bad weather, with snow and 
hail, but nothing was seen to indicate our vicinity, on 
the 1 3th of August, except a seal, which appeared at 
the distance of twenty leagues from it. We anchored in 
Adventure Bay on Wednesday the 20th. 

In our passage hither from the Cape of Good Hope, 
the winds were chiefly from the westward, with very 
boisterous weather. Tlie approach of strong southerly 
winds is announced by many birds of the albatross or 
peterel tribe; and the abatement of the gale, or a shift 
of wiud to the northward, by their keeping away. The 
thermometer also varies five or six degrees in its height, 
when a change of these winds may be expected. 

In the land surrounding Adventure Bay are many fo- 
rest trees oue hundred and fifty feet high ; we saw one 
j which measured above thirty-three feet in girth. We 
1 observed several eagles, some beautiful blue-plumaged 
I herons, and parroquets in great variety. 

The natives not appearing, we went in search of them 
, towards Cape Frederic-Henry. Soon after, coming to a 
' grapnel, close to the shore, for it was impossible to land, 
we heard their voices, like the cackling of geese, and 
! twenty persons came out of the woods. We threw 
j trinkets ashore tied up in parcels, which they would not 
I open out until I made an appearance of leaving them : 
! they then did so, and, taking the articles out, put them 
1 on their heads. On first coming in sight, they made a 
j prodigious clattering in their speech, and held their 
I arms over their heads. They spoke so quick that it was 
j impossible to catch one single word they uttered. Their 
I colour is of a dull black; their skin scarified about the 
j breast and shoulders. One was distinguished by his 
j body being coloured with red ochre, but all the others 
; were painted black, with a kind of soot, so thickly laid 
< over their faces and shoulders, that it was difficult to 
I ascertain what they were like. 



4 7 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



On Thursday, the 4th of Septemher, we sailed out of 
Adventure Bay, steering first towards the east-south-east 
and then to the northward of east, when, on the 19th, 
we came in sight of a cluster of small rocky islands, 
which I named Bounty Isles. Soon afterwards we fre- 
quently observed the sea, in the night time, to be covered 
byluminous spots, caused by amazing quantities of small 
blubbers, or medusa?, which emit, a light, like the blaze 
of a candle, from the strings or filaments extending from 
them, while the rest of the body continues perfectly 
dark. 

We discovered the island of Otaheiteon the 2 5th, and, 
before casting anchor next morning in Matavai Bay, such 
numbers of canoes had come off, that, after the natives 
ascertained we were friends, they came on board, and 
crowded the deck so much, that in ten minutes I could 
scarce find my own people. The whole distance which 
the ship had run, in direct and contrary courses, from 
j the time of leaving England until reaching Otaheite, was 
twenty-seven thousand and eighty-six miles, which, on 
an average, was one hundred and eight miles each twenty- 
four hours. 

Here we lost our surgeon on the 9th of December. 
Of late he had scarcely ever stirred out of the cabin, 
though not apprehended to be in a dangerous state. Ne- 
vertheless, appearing worse than usual in the evening, 
he was removed where he could obtain more air, but 
without any benefit, for he died in an hour afterwards. 
This unfortunate man drank very hard ; and was so averse 
to exercise, that he would never be prevailed on to take 
half a dozen turns on deck at a time, during ail the 
course of the voyage. He was buried on shore. 

On Monday, the 5 th of January, the small cutter was 
missed, of which I was immediately apprised. The 
ship's company being mustered, we found three men ab- 
sent, who had carried it off. They had taken with them 
eight stand of arms and ammunition; but with regard 
to their plan, every one on board seemed to be quite 
ignorant. I therefore went on shore, and engaged all 
the chiefs to assist in recovering both the boat and the 
deserters. Accordingly, the former was brought back 
in the course of the day, by five of the natives; but the 
men were not taken until nearly three weeks afterwards. 
Learning the place where they were, in a different quarter 
of the island of Otaheite, I went thither in the cutter 
thinking there would be no great difficulty in securing 
them with the assistance of the natives. However, they 
heard of my arrival; and when I was near a house in 
which they were, they came out wanting their fire-arms 
and delivered themselves up. Some of the chiefs had 
formerly seized and bound these deserters ; but had been 
prevailed on, by fair promises of returning peaceably to 
the ship, to release them. But finding an opportunity 
again to get possession of their arms, they set the na- 
tives at defiance. 

The object of the voyage being now completed, all 
the bread-fruit plants, to the number of one thousand 
and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday, the 01st of 
March. Besides these, we had collected many other 
plants, some of them bearing the finest fruits in the 
world; and valuable, from affording brilliant dyes, and 
for various properties besides. At sunset of the 4th of 
April, we made sail from Otaheite, bidding farewell to 
an island where for twenty-three weeks w r e had been 
treated with the utmost affection and regard, and which 
seemed to increase in proportion to our stay. That we 



were not insensible to their kindness, the succeeding cir- 
cumstances sufficiently proved; for to the friendly and 
endearing behaviour of these people may be ascribed the 
motives inciting an event that effected the ruin of our 
expedition, which there was every reason to believe would 
have been attended with the most favourable issue. 

Next morning we got sight of the island Huaheine ; j 
and a double canoe soon coming alongside, containing 
ten natives, I saw among them a young man who re- 
collected me, and called me by my name. I had been 
here in the year 1780, with Captain Cook, in the Resolu- 
tion. A few days after sailing from this island, the 
weather became squally, and a thick body of black 
clouds collected in the east. A water-spout was in a short 
time seen at no great distance from us, which appeared 
to great advantage from the darkness of the clouds be- 
hind it. As nearly as I could judge, the upper part was 
about two feet in diameter, and the lower about eight 
inches. ScarcelyhadI made these remarks, when I ob- 
served that it was rapidly advancing towards the ship. 
We immediately altered our course, and took mail the 
sails except the foresail; soon after which it passed 
within ten yards of the stern, with a rustling noise, but 
without our feeling the least effect from its being so 
near. It seemed to be travelling at the rate of about 
ten miles an hour, in the direction of the wind, and it 
dispersed in a quarter of an hour after passing us. It 
is impossible to say what injury we should have received 
had it passed directly over us. Masts, I imagine, might 
have been carried away, but I do not apprehend that it 
would have endangered the loss of the ship. 

Passing several islands on the way, we anchored at 
Annamooka, on the 23d of April; and an old lame 
man called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, and 
immediately recollected, came on board, along with 
others, from different islands in the vicinity. They 
were desirous to see the ship, and, on being taken 
below, where the bread-fruit plants were arranged, 
they testified great surprise. A few of these being 
decayed, we went on shore to procure some in their 
place. 

The natives exhibited numerous marks of the pecu- 
liar mourning which they express on losing their rela- 
tives; such as bloody temples, their heads being de- 
prived of most of the hair, and, what was worse, almost 
the whole of them had lost some of their fingers. Se- 
veral fine boys, not above six years old, had lost both 
their little fingers; and several of the men, besides 
these, had parted with the middle finger of the right 
hand. 

The chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we car- 
ried on a brisk trade for yams; we also got plantains 
and bread-fruit. But the yams were in great abundance, 
and very fine and large. One of them weighed above 
forty-five pounds. Sailing canoes came, some of which 
contained not less than ninety passengers. Such a num- 
ber of them gradually arrived from different islands, 
that it was impossible to get any thing done, the mul- 
titude became so great, and there was no chief of suf- 
ficient authority to command the whole. I therefore 
ordered a watering party, then employed, to come on 
board, and sailed on Sunday, the 26th of April. 

We kept near the island of Kotoo all the afternoon 
of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would come off 
to the ship, but in this we were disappointed. The 
wind being northerly, we steered to the westward in the 



THE ISLAND. 



479 



evening, to pass south of Tofoa; and I gave directions 
for this course to be continued during the night. The 
master had the first watch, the gunner the middle 
watch, and Mr Christian the morning watch. This 
was the turn of duty for the night. 

Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of 
uninterrupted prosperity, and had been attended with 
circumstances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But 
a very different scene was now to be disclosed; a con- 
spiracy had been formed, which was to render all our 
past labour productive only of misery and distress; 
and it had been concerted with so much secrecy and 
circumspection, that no one circumstance escaped to 
betray the impending calamity. 

On the night of Monday, the watch was set as I have 
described. Just before sunrise, on Tuesday morning, 
while I was yet asleep, Mr Christian, with the master- 
at-arms,, gunner's mate, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, 
came into my cabin, and, seizing me, tied my hands 
with a cord behind my back; threatening me with 
instant death if I spoke or made the least noise. I 
nevertheless called out as loud as I could, in hopes of 
assistance; but the officers not of their party were 
already secured by sentinels at their doors. At my 
own cabin-door were three men, besides the four within : 
all except Christian had muskets and bayonets; he had 
only a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, and forced 
on deck in my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean 
time from the tightness with which my hands were 
tied. On demanding the reason of such violence, the 
only answer was abuse for not holding my tongue. The 
master, the gunner, surgeon, master's mate, and Nelson 
the gardener, were kept confined below, and the fore- 
hatchway was guarded bv sentinels. The boatswain 
and carpenter, and also the clerk, were allowed to 
come on deck, where they saw me standing abaft the 
mizen-mast, with my hands tied behind my back, under 
a guard, with Christian at their head. The boatswain 
was then ordered to hoist out the launch, accompanied 
by a threat, if he did not do it instantly, to take care 

OF HIMSELF. 

The boat being hoisted out, Mr Hayward and Mr 
Hallett, two of the midshipmen, and Mr Samuel, the 
clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the intention 
of giving this order, and endeavoured to persuade the 
people near me not to persist in such acts of violence ; 
but it was to no effect; for the constant answer was, 
«Hold your tongue, sir, or you are dead this moment." 

The master had by this time sent, requesting that he 
might come on deck, -which was permitted; but he was 
soon ordered back again to his cabin. My exertions 
to turn the tide of affairs were continued; when Chris- 
tian, changing the cutlass he held for a bayonet, and, 
holding me by the cord about my hands with a strong 
gripe, threatened me with immediate death if 1 wonld 
not be quiet; and the villains around me had their 
pieces cocked and bayonets fixed. 

Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
boat, and were hurried over the ship's side; whence I 
concluded, that along with them I was to be set adrift. 
Another effort to bring about a change produced no- 
thing but menaces of having my brains blown out. 

The boatswain and those seamen who were to 
be put into the boat, were allowed to collect twine, 
canvas, lines, sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty gal- 
lon cask of water; and Mr Samuel got i5o pounds of 



bread, with a small quantity of rum and wine; also a 
quadrant and compass: but he was prohibited, on pain 
of death, to touch any map or astronomical book, 
and any instrument, or any of my surveys and draw- 
ings. 

The mutineers having thus forced those of the sea- 
men whom they wished to get rid of into the boat, 
Christian directed a dram to be served to each of his 
crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing could be 
done to recover the ship. The officers were next called 
on deck, and forced over the ship's side into the boat, 
while I was kept apart from every one abaft the mizen- 
mast. Christian, armed with a bayonet, held the cord 
fastening my hands, and the guard around me stood 
with their pieces cocked; but on my daring the un- 
grateful wretches to fire, they uncocked them. Isaac 
Martin, one of them, I saw, had an inclination to assist 
me; and as he fed me with shaddock, my lips being 
quite parched, we explained each other's sentiments by 
looks. But this was observed, and he was removed. 
He then got into the boat, attempting to leave the ship; 
however, he was compelled to return. Some others 
were also kept, contrary to their inclination. 

It appeared to me, that Christian was some time in 
doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or his 
males. At length he determined for the latter, and the 
carpenter was ordered into the boat. He was per- 
mitted, though not without opposition, to take his tool- 
chest. 

Mr Samuel secured mv journals and commission, with 
some important ship-papers ; this he did with great re- 
solution, though strictly watched. He attempted to save 
the time-keeper, and a box with my surveys, drawings, 
and remarks for fifteen years past, which were very 
numerous, when he was hurried away with — « Damn 
your eyes, you are well off to get what you have.« 

Much altercation took place among the mutinous crew 
during the transaction of this whole affair. Some swore, 
« I '11 be damned if he does not find his way home, if he 
gets any thing with him,» meaning me; and when the 
carpenter's chest was carrying away, « Damn my eyes, 
he will have a vessel built in a month ;» while others ri- 
diculed the helpless situation of the boat, which was very 
deep in the water, and had so little room for those who 
were in her. As for Christian, he seemed as if medi- 
tating destruction on himself and every one else. 

I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at me, 
and said I was well acquainted with the people among 
whom I was going; four cutlasses, however, were thrown 
into the boat, after we were veered astern. 

The officers and men being in the boat, they only 
waited for me, of which the master-at-arms informed 
Christian, who then said, « Come, Captain Bligh, your 
officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go 
with them; if you attempt to make the least resistance, 
you will instantly be put to death ;» and without further 
ceremony, I was forced over the side by a tribe of armed 
ruffians, where they untied my hands. Being in the 
boat, we were veered astern by a rope. A few pieces 
of pork were thrown to us, also the four cutlasses. The 
armourer and carpenter then called out to me to remem- 
ber that they had no hand in the transaction. After 
having been kept some time to make sport for these 
unfeeling wretches, and having undergone much ridi- 
cule, we were at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 
Eighteen persons w r ere with me in the boat, — the 



48o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain, 
carpenter, master, and quarter-master's mate, two quar- 
ter-masters, tbe sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, the 
butcher, and a boy. There remained on board, Fletcher 
Christian, the master's mate; Peter Haywood, Edward 
Young, George Stewart, midshipmen; the master-at- 
arms, gunner's mate, boatswain's mate, gardener, ar- 
mourer, carpenter's mate, carpenter's crew, and four- 
teen seamen, being altogether the most able men of the 
ship's company. 

Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast towards 
the island of Tofoa, which bore north-east about ten 
leagues distant. The ship while in sight steered west- 
north-west, but this I considered only as a feint, for 
when we were sent away, « Huzza for Otaheite!» was 
frequently heard among the mutineers. 

Christian, the chief of them, was of a respectable fa- 
mily in the north of England. This was the third 
voyage lie had made with me. Notwithstanding the 
roughness with which I was treated, the remembrance of 
past kindnesses produced some remorse in him. While 
they were forcing me out of the ship, I asked him whe- 
ther this was a proper return for the many instances he 
had experienced of my friendship? He appeared disturb- 
ed at the question, and answered, with much emotion, 
« That — Captain Bligh — that is the thing — I am in 
hell — I am in hell.» His abilities to take charge of the 
third watch, as I had so divided the ship's company, 
were fully equal to the task. 

Haywood was also of a respectable family in the 
north of England, and a young man of abilities, as well 
as Christian. These two had been objects of my parti- 
cular regard and attention, and I had taken great pains 
to instruct them, having entertained hopes that, as pro- 
fessional men, they would have become a credit to their 
country. Young was well recommended; and Stewart 
of creditable parents in the Orkneys, at which place, on 
the return of the Resolution from the South Seas in 1 780, 
we received so many civilities, that in consideration of 
these alone I should gladly have taken him with me. 
But lie had always borne a good character. 

When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few 
hours before, my situation had been peculiarly flatter- 
ing; I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored with 
every necessary, both for health and service; the object 
of the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it now 



completed. The remaining part had every prospect of 
success. 

It will naturally be asked, what could be the cause of 
such a revolt? In answer, T can only conjecture that the 
mutineers had flattered themselves with the hope of a 
happier life among the Otahcitans than they could pos- 
sibly enjoy in England; which, joined to some female 
connexions, most probably occasioned the whole trans- 
action. 

The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
cheerful in manners and conversation; possessed of 
great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make 
them be admired and beloved. The chiefs were so much 
attached to our people, that they rather encouraged 
their stay among them than otherwise, and even made 
them promises of large possessions. Under these, and 
many other concomitant circumstances, it ought hardly 
to be the subject of surprise that a set of sailors, most 
of them void of connexions, should be led away, where 
they had the power of fixing themselves in the midst 
of plenty, in one of the finest islands in the world, where 
there was no necessity to labour, and where the allure- 
ments of dissipation are beyond any conception that 
can be formed of it. The utmost, however, that a com- 
mander could have expected, was desertions, such as 
have already happened more or less in the South Seas, 
and not an act of open mutiny. 

But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief. Thir- 
teen of the party who were now with me had always 
lived forward among the seamen; yet neither they, nor 
the messmates of Christian, Stewart, Haywood, and 
Young, had ever observed any circumstance to excite 
suspicion of what was plotting; and it is not wonderful 
if T fell a sacrifice to it, my mind being entirely free 
from suspicion. Perhaps, had marines been on board, 
a sentinel at my cabin-door might have prevented it; 
for ! constantly slept with the door open, that the officer 
of the watch might have access, to me on all occasions. 
If the munity had been occasioned by any grievances, 
either real or imaginary, I must have discovered symp- 
toms of discontent, which would have put me on my 
guard; but it was far otherwise. With Christian, in 
particular, I was on the most friendly terms; that very 
day he was engaged to have dined with me; and the 
preceding night he excused himself from supping with 
me on pretence of indisposition, for which 1 felt con- 
cerned, having no suspicions of his honour or integrity. 



W$t &%t of %xm\$\ 



CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS BAUD MIRABILIS. 

Impar Congressus Achilli. 



The « good old times» — all times, when old, are good- 
Are gone; the present might be, if they would; 
Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
Want little of mere mortals but their will: 
A wider space, a greener field is given 
To those who play their « tricks before high Heaven." 



I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough— for what? — to weep again 

II. 
All is exploded— be it good or bad. 
Header! remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so mueli, 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



We, we have seen the intellectual race 

Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 

Athos and Ida, -with a dashing sea 

Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 

As the deep billows of the ^Egean roar 

Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 

But where are they — the rivals? — a few feet 

Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. 

How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, 

Which hushes all ! a calm unstormy wave 

Which oversweeps the world ! The theme is old 

Of « dust to dust,» but half its tale untold. 

Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 

Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form — 

Varied above, but still alike below, - 

The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 

Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea, 

O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; 

Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 

On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 

How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 

The madman's wish, the 3Iacedonian's tear ! 

He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 

Knows not his name, or but his death and birth 

And desolation ; while his native Greece 

Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 

He « wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er 

Conceived the globe he panted not to spare! 

With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 

Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

III. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 

Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car? 

The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 

Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, 

And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 

Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ! 

Yes! where is he, the champion and the child 

Of all that 's great or little, wise or wild ? 

Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones: 

Whose table, earth — whose dice were human bones ? 

Behold the grand result in you lone isle, 

And, as thy nature urges^ weep or smile. 

Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 

Beduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 

Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations 

Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 

Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 

O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 

O'er petty quarrels upon petty things : 

Is this the man who scourged" or feasted kings? 

Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 

A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues ! 

A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 

The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 

Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, 

Now slave of all could teaze or irritate— 

Thy paltry jailor and the prying spy, 

The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? 

Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great : 

How low, how little was this middle state, 

Between a prison and a palace, where 

How few could feel for what he had to bear! 

Vain his complaint— my lord presents his bill, 

His food and wine were doled out duly still : 



Vain was his sickness, — never was a clime 
So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; 
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
Be wavering which long awed and awes mankind : 
Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again. 

IV. 
How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought to be! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 
He tasted empire's blessings, and its curse ; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape: 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
What though his jailor, duteous to the last, 
Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 
Refusing one poor line along the lid 
To date the birth and death of all it hid, 
That name. shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who bore : 
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast; 
When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies 
Do more than niggard Envy still denies. 
But what are these to him? Can glory's lust 
Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists, 
Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 
Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 
As if his ashes found their latest home 
In Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. 
He wants not this; but France shall feel the want 
Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 
Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones, 
To rear amid a pyramid of thrones; 
Or carried onward, in the battle's van 
To form, like Guesclin's « dust, her talisman. 
But be it as it is, the time may come 
His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum. 

V. 

Oh, Heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 
Oh, earth ! of which he was a noble creature; 
Thou isle! to be remember'd long and well, 
That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 

1 Guesclin died during the siege of a city ; it surrendered, and tho 
keys were brought and laid upon his bier, so that the place might 
appear rendered to his ashes. 

6l 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 

Hover the victor of an hundred fights! 

Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone' 

Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon ? 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites? 

Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 

And shook within her pyramids to hear 

A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood; 

Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 

To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 

Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid! 

Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic! — Frederics but in name 

And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell, 

First, and but rose to follow : ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste : 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name; 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear: 

Kosciusko! on — on — on — the thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar ; 

The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 

Moscow! thou limit of his long career, 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 

To see in vain — he saw thee — how! with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 

The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 

Sublimest of volcanos! Etna's flame 

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 

For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height: 

Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, in which all empires shall expire. 

Thou other element! as strong and stern 

To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn, 

Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 

Till fell a hero with each flake of show ; 

How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 

Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang! 

In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 

For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks; 

In vain shall France recal beneath her vines 

Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines, 

Or stagnant in their human ice remains 

In frozen mummies on the polar plains. 

In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 

Her offspring chill'd, its beams are now forsaken. 

Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 

What shall return? The conqueror's broken car! 



The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 

The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 

Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 

Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die : 

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 

Before their sovereign — sovereign, as before; 

But there exhausted Fortune quits their field, 

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield; 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolfs, and fox's guide; 

A ud backward to the den of his despair 

The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair! 

Oh ye! and each, and all! oh, France! who found 

Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 

Look'd down o'er trampled Paris, and thou, isle, 

Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 

The momentary shelter of his pride, 

Till, woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride; 

Oh, France! retaken by a single march, 

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 

Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, 

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 

Won, half by blunder, half by treachery; 

Oh, dull Saint Helen! with thy jailor nigh — 

Hear! hear! Prometheus ' from his rock appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd ; 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 

The reed of fortune and of thrones the rod, 

Of fame the Moloch or the demi-god; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent dignity of fall. 

Yet vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought, 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page, 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth : 

While Washington \s a watch-word, such as ne'er 

Shall sink while there's an echo left to air: 

While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! 

Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 

Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave, — 

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 

Who burst the chains of millions to renew 

The very fetters which his arm broke through, 

And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own 

To flit between a dungeon and a throne? 

VI. 

But 't will not be — the spark 's awaken'd — lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow; 

' I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in /Esihylas, 
when he is left alone by his attendants, and before the arrival of the 
Chorus of Sea-nymphs. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



[83 



The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 

Through eight long ages of alternate gore, 

Revives— and where? in that avenging clime 

Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 

Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 

The infant world redeems her name of « 2Veiu.» 

T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 

Where Greece was — No! she still is Greece once more. 

One common cause makes myriads of one breast! 

Slaves of the east, or Helots of the west; 

On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 

The self-same standard streams o'er either world : 

The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; 

The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord; 

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek; 

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique; 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar: 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 

Sweep lightly by the half-tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 

Break o'er the iEgean, mindful of the day 

Of Salamis — there, there the waves arise, 

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 

By Christians unto whom they gave their creed, 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile, 

The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey; — 

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 

But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 

Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 

How should the autocrat of bondage be 

The king of serfs, and set the nations free? 

Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 

Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; 

Better still toil for masters, than await, 

The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 

Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 

A live estate, existing but for thrall, 

Lotted by thousands as a meet reward 

For the first courtier in the czar's regard; 

While their immediate owner never tastes 

His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes; 

Better succumb even to their own despair, 

And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

VII. 
But not alone within the hoariest clime, 
Where freedom dates her birth with that of time; 
And not alone where plunged in night, a crowd 
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 
The dawn revives; renown'd, romantic Spain 
Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde, 
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both; 
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 



That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage, 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprun 

But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their swa 

Yet left more anti-christian foes than they: 

The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 

The inquisition, with her burning feast, 

The faith's red «auto,» fed with human fuel, 

While sat the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 

Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 

That fiery festival of agony! 

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 

By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth , 

The long-degenerate noble ; the debased 

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced 

But more degraded; the unpeopled realm; 

The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 

The once impervious phalanx disarray'd; 

The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade; 

The foreign wealth that flow'd on every shore, 

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore; 

The very language, which might vie with Rome's, 

And once was known to nations like their homes, 

Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 

But such she is not, nor shall be again. 

These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 

The new Numantine soul of Old Castile. 

Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor! 

The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; 

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 

Revive the cry — «Iago! and close Spain !»' 

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 

And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 

The exterminating war; the desert plaiu; 

The streets without a tenant, save the slain; 

The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop 

Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 

For their incessant prey; the desperate wall 

Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 

Waving her more than Amazonian blade : 

The knife of Arragon, 2 Toledo's steel; 

The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; 

The unerring rifle of the Catalan; 

The Andalusian courser in the van ; 

The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win— not Spain, but thine own freedom, France ! 

VIII. 

But lo! a congress! What, that hallow'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
For outworn Europe? With the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young freedom, summon'd far 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 

1 « Stlago! and close Spain!" the old Spanish war-cry. 

2 The Arragonians are peculiarly dextrous in the use of this we 
pon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars. 



484 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 

Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 

To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 

But who compose this senate of the few 

That should redeem the many ? Who renew 

This consecrated name, till now assign'd 

To councils held to benefit mankind? 

Who now assemble at the holy call? — 

The bless' d alliance which says three are all ! 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity! in purpose one, 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed : 

But these, more hungry, must have something more- 

The power to bark and bite, to toss, and gore.' 

Ah, how much happier were good JEsop's frogs 

Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 

And crushing nations with a stupid blow, 

All dully anxious to leave little work 

Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice bless'd Verona! since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 

Honour' d by them, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of « all the Capulets;» 

Thy Scaligers — for what was « Dog the Great,» 

«Can' Grandc» (which I venture to translate) 

To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate : 

And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate; 

Thy good old man, * whose world was all within 

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 

To tell oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage — 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in ribbonry and stars — 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 

Clasp thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 



Resplendent sight! behold the coxcomb czar, 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war! 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 

And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 

And generous spirit when 't is not frost-bit; 

Now half-dissolving to a liberal thaw, 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning s raw; 

With no objection to true liberty, 

Except that it Avould make the nations free, 

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece ! 

1 The famous old man of Verona. 



How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 

With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ; 

How royally show off in proud Madrid 

His goodly person, from the south long hid, — 

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 

By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 

La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; 

And that which Scythia was to him of yore, 

Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 

Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth : 

Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 

Many an old woman, but no Catherine. ' 

Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 

The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields; 

Thinks't thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields? 

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, 

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 

Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 

To infest the clime, whose skies and laws are pure, 

With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe; 

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago : 

And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey? 

Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 

Stand between mine and ma>ny a myriad's sun ; 

But were I not Diogenes, I 'd wander 

Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 

Be slaves who will, the Cynic shall be free; 

His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 

Still will he hold his lanthorn up to scan 

The face of monarchs for an « honest man.» 

XI. 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries? and her noisy Chambers, 
And tribune which each orator first clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and, when 't is found, 
Hears « the lie» echo for his answer round? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear; 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day, his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot, 
To listening long and interrupting not? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, 
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action !» 

XII. 

But where 's the monarch? hath he dined? or yet 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? 



1 The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by 
courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the 
river Pruth. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



485 



Have revolutionary pates risen, 

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison? 

Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops? 

Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups? 

Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 

Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded 

Repletion? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 

I read all — ~'s treason in her cooks ! 

Good classic, ! is it, canst thou say, 

Desirable to be the « ?» 

Why wouldst thou leave calm 's green abode, 

Apician table and Horatian odel, 

To rule a people who will not be ruled, 

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd? 

Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste 

For thrones — the table sees thee better placed : 

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 

To be a kind host and as good a guest; 

To talk of letters, and to know by heart 

One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; 

A scholar always, now and then a wit, 

And gentle when digestion may permit — 

But not to govern lands enslaved or free; 

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee! 

XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise? 
« Arts — arms — and George— and glory and the isles- 
And happy Britain — wealth and freedom's smiles- 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof- 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! ' 

And Waterloo— and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Gastlereagh, 

Whose pen-knife slit a goosc-quill t' other day — 

And 'pilots who have weather'd every storm' — 

(But no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform) » 

These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 

Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 

Found in so many volumes far and near, 

There 's no occasion you should find them here. 

Yet something may remain, perchance, to chime 

With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme; 

Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 

Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, 

And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 

To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 

Our last, our best, our only orator, 

Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more, 

Nay, not so much; — they hate thee, man, because 

Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. — 

The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, 

And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow : 

But not for love mistake their yelling cry, 

Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; 

Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 

A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 

Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 

Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; 

1 « Xaso suspendit adunco." — Horace. 

The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his 
quainlanca. 



The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud; 
But what of that? the animal shows blood. 

XIV. 

Alas, the country! — how shall tongue or pen 

Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen? — 

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 

The first to make a malady of peace. 

For what were all these country patriots born? 

To hunt and vote, and raise the price of corn? 

But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall — 

Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 

And must ye fall with every ear of grain? 

Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 

He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices; 

He amplified, to every lord's content, 

The grand agrarian alchymy — high rent. 

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

And lower wheat to such desponding quarters? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure bouudlessly were spilt, 

But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; 

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale? 

The purse-proud tenant never known to fail? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand? 

The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land? 

The impatient hope of the expiring lease? 

The doubling rental? What an evil 's peace! 

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 

In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill; 

The landed interest — (you may understand 

The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 

The land's self-interest groans from shore to shore, 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up! up again ! ye rents, exalt your notes, 

Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 

And patriotism, so delicately nice, 

Her loaves will lower to the market price; 

For ah ! « the loaves and fishes,» once so high, 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry; 

And nought remains of all the millions spent, 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so had their turn — and turn 

About still flows from fortune's equal u .n; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward, 

And share the blessings which themselves prepared. 

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm! 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 

Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 

Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle— why? for rent! 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent. 

Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why? for rent! 

They roar'd , they dined , they drank , they swore they 

meant 
To die for England— why then live? for rent! 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, 



486 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



How reconcile? — by reconciling rent. 

And will they not repay the treasures lent? 

No: down with every thing, and up with rent! 

Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 

Being, end, aim, religion — Pient, rent, rent! 

Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess : 

Thou shouldst have gotten more or eaten less : 

Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 

Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands. 

Such, landlords, was your appetite for war, 

And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! 

What, would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash? 

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? 

So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 

And found on 'Change a. foundling hospital ! 

Lo, mother church, while all religion writhes, 

Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, tithes; 

The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 

And proud pluralities subside to one; 

Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark, 

Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark; 

Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 

Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 

And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 

And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 

« Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;» 

Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 

Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 

The price of taxes and of homicide; 

Admire their justice, which would fain deny 

The debt of nations : pray, who made it high? 



XV. 



Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 
The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
Where Midas might again his wish behold 
In real paper or imagined gold. 
That magic palace of Alcina shows 
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
Were all her atoms of unleavened ore, 
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake, 
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines, 
Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines; 
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? 
Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own; 
All states, all things, all sovereigns they controul, 
And waft a loan « from Indus to the Po!e.» 
The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less 
Fresh speculations follow each success; 
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march — 
T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
In every realm their scripture-promised land : 
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 



Two Jews — but not Samaritans— direct 

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 

What is the happiness of earth to them* 

A congress forms their «New Jerusalem, » 

Where baronies and orders both invite. 

Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight? 

Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 

Who spit not « on their Jewish gaberdine, » 

But honour them as portion of the show — 

(Where now, oh Pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 

Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? 

Or has it ceased to « kick against the pricks ?») 

On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 

To cut from nations' hearts their « pound of flesh.» 

XVI. 

Strange sight this congress! destined to unite 

All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 

I speak not of the sovereigns — they re alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike : 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 

While Europe wonders at the vast design : 

There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 

Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight: 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs; v 

And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars; 

There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 

To furnish articles for the « Debats;» 

Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 

As his dismissal in the «Moniteur.» 

Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err? 

Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 

He falls indeed,— perhaps to rise again, 

« Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.» 

XVII. 

Enough of this— a sight more mournful woos 

The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 

The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 

The imperial victim— sacrifice to pride; 

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 

The young Astyanax of modern Troy; 

The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 

That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen : 

She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, 

The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 

Oh, cruel mockery! could not Austria spare 

A daughter? What did France's widow there? 

Her fitter place was by St Helen's wave— 

Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 

But, no,— she still must hold a petty reign, 

Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain; 

The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 

What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Which swept from Moscow to the Southern seas, 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 

1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgolten the author in the 
minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary 
sovereign: u Ah ! Monsieur C , are you related to that Cha- 
teaubriand who— who— who has written something (eerit qtcelque 
clwse) '?» It is said that the author of Alala repented him for a mo- 
ment of his legitimacy. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 4^7 


Where Parma views the traveller resort 




To note the trappings of her mimic court. 


XVIII. 


But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 


But tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 


Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — 


And sketch the group — the picture 's yet to come. 
My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 


Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
To chill in their inhospitable clime 


She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 


(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold — 


While throng'd the Chiefs of every Highland clan 
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 


But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould) ; 


She comes! the Andromache (but not Racine's, 


Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 
While all the Common Council cry, « Claymore !» 
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a City Celt, 
She burst into a laughter so extreme, 


Nor Homer's) ; lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 


Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 


Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 


Is offer'd and accepted ! Could a slave 


Do more? or less? and he in his new grave ! 


That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 


Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 




And the .Ex-empress grows as Ex a wife ! 




So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 


Here, reader, will we pause ; — if here 's no harm in 


Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests? 


This first — you '11 have, perhaps, a second « Carmen." 


Q£\)t SJtetott j 


of Ju&gnwnt 


BY QUEVEDO 


REDIVIVUS. 


SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF « WAT TYLER. » 


A Daniel come to jud 


;ment ! yea, a Daniel ! 


I lhank thee, Jew, foi 


teaching me that word. 


I. 


IV. 


Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 


His business so augmented of late years, 


His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 


That he was forced, against his will, no doubt 


So little trouble had been given of late ; 


(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), 


Not that the place by any means was full, 


For some resource to turn himself about, 


But since the Gallic era « eighty-eight," 


And claim the help of his celestial peers, 


The devils had taken a longer, stronger pull, 


To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 


And « a pull altogether," as they say 


By the increased demand for his remarks : 


At sea — which drew most souls another way. 


Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 


II. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 


V. 

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven ; 


And hoarse with having little else to do, 


And yet they had even then enough to do, 


Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 


So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 


Or curb a runaway young star or two, 


So many kingdoms fitted up anew: 


Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 


Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven, 


Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 


Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 


Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 


They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 


As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 


The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 


III. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 


VI. 

This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 


Finding their charges past all care below; 


What angels shrink from ; even the very devil 


Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 


On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 


Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 


So surfeited with the infernal revel : 


Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 


Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, 


With such rapidity of vice and woe, 


It almost, quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 


That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 


(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 


And yet was in arrear of human ills. 


T is, that he has both generals in reversion.) 



488 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VII. 

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 
With nothing but new names inscribed upon 't; 

'T will one day finish : meantime they increase, 

« With seven heads and ten horns, » and all in front, 

Like Saint John's foretold beasts ; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn 

Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun : 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind, 

One half as mad — and t' other no less blind. 

IX. 

He died ! his death made no great stir on earth ; 

His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion ; 
For these things may be bought at their true worth: 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also : and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 

The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ,• 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight] 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done : 
He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
For him, unless he left a German will ; 

But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
In whom his qualities are reigning still, 

Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 

Of constancy to a bad ugly woman. 

XIII. 

« God save the king !» It is a large economy 

In God to save the like ; but if he will 
Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 

Of those who think damnation better still : 
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 



XIV. 
I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I kuow we are cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd, 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 

XV. 

God help us all ! God help me, too! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to damn 

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
Not that I'm tit for such a noble dish 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost every body born to die. 

XVI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 

And nodded o'er his keys: when lo ! there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great, 

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, « There's another star gone out, I think !» 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose ; 

« Saint porter,» said the angel, « prithee rise !» 
Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 
To which the saint replied, «WelI, what's the matter? 
Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?» 

XVIII. 
«No,» quoth the cherub; u George the Third is dead.» 

« And who is George the Third?» replied the apostle; 
« What George? what ThirdU « The King of England,» 

said 
The angel. «Well! he won't find kings to jostle 
Him on his way; but does he wear his head ? 

Because the — we saw here had a tussle, 
And ne'er would have got into Heaven's good graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 
« He was, if I remember, King of — : 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
On earth, yet, ventured in my face to advance 

A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 
If I had had my sword, as I had once 

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 
But having but my keys, and not my brand, 
I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 

« And then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him in; 

And there he sits by Saint Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow, Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 



THE VISION OP JUDGMENT. 



489 



XXI. 

« But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell: 

The fellow-feeling in the saint beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell. 

And so this very foolish head Heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below. » 

XXII. 

The angel answer'd, « Peter! do not pout; 

The king who comes has head and all entire, 
And never knew much what it was about — 

He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 
And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 

My business and your own is not to inquire 
Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
Which is, to act as we are bid to do.» 

XXIII. 

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
Cleaving the fields of space as doth the swan 

Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 

With an old soul, and botli extremely blind, 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But, bringing up the rear of this bright host, 

A spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face., 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate, 

Ne'er to be enter' d more by him or sin, 
With such a glance of supernatural hate, 

As made Saint Peter wish himself within; 
He potter' d with his keys at a great rate, 

And sweated through his apostolic skin: 
Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled all together, 

Like birds, when soars the falcon; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
And form'd a circle, like Orion's belt, 

Around their poor old charge, who scarce knew whither 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes (for, by many stories, 

And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 

Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges 

Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 

O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound, 

By Captain Parry's crews, in « Melville's Sound. » 



XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty thing of light, 

Radiant with glory like a banner streaming 

Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight : 

My poor comparison must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 

'T was the archangel Michael : all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since 

There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really cau't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 

XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise: the portal pass'd — he stood; 

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary 
(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saint bow'd down before 
That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 

Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 

Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
No thought, save for his Maker's service, dur^t 

Intrude, however glorified and high; 

He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 
i Such was their power, that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe, but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In either's eye, as if 't were iess their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their « Champ Clos» the sphc 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, that Sathan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so : 

And that * the sons of God,» like those of clay, 

Must keep him company; and we might show, 
From the same hook, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the powers 

Of good and evil — but 't would take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 
! If Job be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
I From out the whole but such and such an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
! 'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
And accurate as anv other vision. 

i 6 = 



49° 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xxxv. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 

The gate of heaven; like eastern thresholds is 

The place where death's grand cause is argued o'er, 
And souls dispatch'd to that world or to this ; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, 

But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindly; Sathan met his ancient friend 
"With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then, raising it, he stood 

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 

Cause why King George by no means could or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
Eternal, more than other kings endued 

With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 

Who long have «paved hell with their good intentions. » 

XXXVIII. 

Michael began : « What wouldst thou with this man, 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill 

Oath he wrought since his mortal race began, 

That thou canst claim him? Speak, and do thy will, 

If it be just : if in this earthly span 
He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 

His duties as a king and mortal, say, 

4nd he is thine; if not, let him have way.» 

XXXIX. 

« Michael!" replied the prince of air, « even here, 
Before the gate of Him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject; and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ! yet on the throne 

He rcign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

« Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was 
Once, more thy Master's : but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest, nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings. 

XLI. 
« And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 

Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
I such an inclination, 't were (as you 

Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad, 
That hell has nothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad 
And evil be their own internal curse, 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 



XLII. 

« Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor -worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
The world and he both wore a different form, 

And much of earth and all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss of time; 

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII. 

« He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 
Look to the state in which he found his realm, 

And left it : and his annals, too, behold, 
How to a minion first he gave the helm; 

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 

The meanest hearts ; and, for the rest, but glance 

Thine eye along America and France ! 

XLIV. 

«'T is true, he was a tool from first to last 
(I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 

So let him be consumed ! From out the past 
Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 

Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesar's school, 

Take the worst pupil, and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain ! 

XLV. 

« He ever warr'd with freedom and the free ! 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty!' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 

With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 

XL VI. 

« I know he was a constant consort ; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 

Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
I grant him all the kindest can afford ; 

And this was well for him, but not for those 

Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XL VII. 

The new world shook him off; the old yet groans 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

Upon the throne of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLVIII. 

« Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



49 l 



XLIX. 

«True! he allow'd them to pray God,- but, as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe.» 

But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
And cried, « You may the prisoner withdraw : 

Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelf, 

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 

L. 

« Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!» 
« Saint !» replied Sathau, «you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure; 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I 11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven.» 

III. 

Here Michael interposed: « Good saint! and devil! 

Pray, not so fast; you both out-run discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Sathan! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level: 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say?» — «No !» — «If you please, 
I '11 trouble you to call your witnesses. » 

LII. 

Then Sathan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 

Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
Clouds farther off than we can understand, 

Although we find him sometimes in our skies; 
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 

In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
As one of Sathan's most sublime inventions. 

LIU. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assign'd; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 

LIV. 

They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins; or like to an «entree» 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry : 

I borrow my comparisons from clay, 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell, — 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second, 

For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London; through which, dimly beacon'd, 

The weathercocks are gilt, some thrice a year, 

If that the summer is not too severe : — 



LVL 

I say that I can tell — 't was half a minute ; 

I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it; 

But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Sathan's couriers bound for their own clime. 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVII. 
Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd 
(I 've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the iEgean, ere a squall) ; it near'd, 
And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd 
Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer; — 

LVIII. 

But take your choice) ; and then it grew a cloud, 

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild-geese 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
And realized the phrase of « hell broke loose. >■> 

LIX. 
Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 

Who damn'd away his eyes, as heretofore : 
There Paddy brogued « by Jasus!» — « What's your wull?» 

The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost swore 
In certain terms I shan't translate in full, 

As the first coachman will; and 'midst the war 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
« Our President is going to war, I guess. » 

LX. 

Besides, there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades 
From Otaheite's Isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
All summon'd by this grand « subpo3:ia,» to 
Try if kings may n't be damn'd, like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can; next, like Italian twilight, 

He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 

Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Sathan : « Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe; 

Our difference is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below, 

You know my great respect for you; and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss. 



■2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIII. 

« Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses'? I did not mean 

That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
'T is even superfluous, since two honest, clean 

True testimonies are enough : we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 't will stretch our immortality. » 

LXIV. 

Sathan replied, «To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 

I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already; and I merely argued his 

Late Majesty of Britain's case with you 

Upon a point of form : you may dispose 

Of him; I 've kings enough below, God knows !» 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the demon (late call'd « multifaced» 
By multo-scribbling Southey). « Then we '11 call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest,» quoth Michael : « Who may be so graced 
As to speak first? there 's choice enough — who shall 

It be?» Then Sathan answer'd, « There are many; 

But you may chuse Jack Wilkes as well as auy.» 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite; 
For ah the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world; where unite 

All the costumes since Adam's right or wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
Assembled, and exclaim'd, « My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds ; 
So let's to business: why this general call? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 't is for an election that they bawl, 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd-coat! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?» 

lxviii. 

«Sir,» replied Michael, «you mistake: these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met; so now you know.» 
« Then /presume those gentlemen with wings,» 

Said Wilkes, « are cherubs; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third ; but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?» 

LXIX. 

« He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds, » the angel said. 

« If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest.»~« Some,» 
Said Wilkes, « don't wait to see them laid in lead, 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, 

Have told them what I thought, beneath the sun.» v 



LXX. 

« Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 

To urge against him,» said the archangel. «Why,» 

Beplied the spirit, "since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXI. 

« Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him punish'd here for their excess, 

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his 'habeas corpus' into heaven. » 

LXXTI. 

« Wilkes,» said the devil, «I understand all this; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your labour, 
For at the best he will but be your neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

i< However, I knew what to think of it, 
When I beheld yon, in your jesting way, 

Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil; I knew what to think, I say : 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills; 

I '11 have him gagg'd — 't was one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

« Call Junius !» From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 

So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
In comfort, at their own aerial ease, 

But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd, 
As we shall see) and jostled hands and knees, 

Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 

Or like a human cholic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 

The shadow came ! a tall, thin, grey-hair'd figure, 
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth; 

Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour, 
But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : 

Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed ever instant — to what none could say. 

LXXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 

The devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 

And several people swore from out the press, 
They knew him perfectly: and one could swear 

He was his father; upon which another 

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother; 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



49^ 



LXXYII. 
Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight] 

lie stood, the puzzle only was increased; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin ! 

LXXVIIF. 
The moment that you had pronounced him one, 

Presto! his face changed, and he was another; 
And when that change was hardly well put on, 

It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
(If that he had a mother) would her son 

Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other, 
Till guessing, from a pleasure, grew a task, 
At this epistolary «iron mask.» 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
« Three gentlemen at once» (as sagely says 

Good Mrs Malaprop); then you might deem 
That he was not even one ; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days: 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX. 

I 've an hypothesis — 't is quite my owu ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown; 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine earT 
'T is, that what Junius we are wont to call, 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXT. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads; and books we see 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too : 

And really, till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

« And who and what art thou?» the archangel said. 

« For that, you may consult my title-page,» 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 

«If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it uow.» — « Canst thou upbraid,» 

Continued Michael, « George Rex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answer'd, « You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter. 

LXXXITI. 

*My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.» 
(diepent'st thou not,» said Michael, « of some past 

Exaggeration? somethiug which may doom 
Thyself, if false, as him if true? Thou wast 

Too bitter — is it not so? in thy gloom 
Of passion?» « Passion !» cried the phantom dim, 
« 1 loved my country, and I hated him. 



LXXXIY. 

« What I have written, I have written : let 
The rest be on his head or mine !» So spoke 

Old « nomiuis umbra ; » and, while speaking yet, 
Away he melted in celestial smoke. 

Then Sathan said to Michael, « Don't forget 

To call George Washington, and John Home Tooke, 

And Franklin .» — but at this time there was heard 

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXY. 

At length, with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

« What's this ? cried Michael ; « why, 't is not a ghost !» 
«I know it,» quoth the incubus; « but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXYI. 

« Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd, 

My left wing, he 's so heavy; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point : while hovering o'er the brink 

Of Skiddaw (where, as usual, it still rain'd), 
I saw a taper far below me wink, 

And, stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the holy bible. 

LXXXYII. 

«The former is the devil's scripture, and 
The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand: 
I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 

At least a quarter it can hardly be : 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea.» 

LXXXYIH. 

Here Sathan said, «I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear! 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

« But since he 's here, let s see what he has done.» 
«Done!» cried Asmodeus, « he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon, 

And scribbles as if head-clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates !» 

«Let s hear,» quoth Michael, «what he has to say; 

You know we're bound to that in every way!» 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 

By no means often was his case below r , 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

His voice into that awful note of woe 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 



494 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XGI. 

But ere the spavin' d dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way. 
And cried, « For God's sake stop, my friend! 'twere best— 
l Non Di, non homines,' — you know the rest.» 

XGII. 

A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation; 

The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service; and the generation 

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
Before, to profit by a new occasion : 

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd « What ! what ! 

Pye come again? No more — no more of that!» 

XCTII. 
The tumult grew, an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
When Castlereagh has been up long enough 

(Before he was first minister of state, 
' mean — the slaves hear now), some cried « off, off,» 

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate, 
The bar Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 

The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Cuite a poetic felony, « de se.» 

XGV. 
Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCVI. 

He said— (I only give the heads) — he said, 

He meant no harm in scribbling ; 't was his way 

Upon all topics; 't was, besides, his bread, 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 't would delay 

Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 
And take up rather more time than a day, 

To name his works — he would but cite a few — 

Wat Tyler — rhymes on Blenheim — Waterloo. 

XCVII. 
He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics, far and wide, 

And then against them, bitterer than ever; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever ; 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had turn'd his coat— and would have turn'd his skin. 



XGVIII. 
He had sung against all battles, and again 

In their high praise and glory; he had call'd 
Reviewing > « the ungentle craft,» and then 

Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 
Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 
And more of both than any body knows. 

XCIX. 

He had written Wesley's life : — here, turning round 
To Sathan, «Sir, I 'm ready to write yours, 

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 

With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser; and there 's no ground 
For fear, for I can chuse my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents, 

That I may add you to my other saints." 

C. 

Sathan bow'd, and was silent. « Well, if you, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 

Cf. 

« But talking about trumpets, here s my Vision ! 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
Judge with my judgment ! and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall ! 
I settle all these things by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
Like King Alfonso! 2 When I thus see double, 
I save the deity some worlds of trouble.)) 

GIL 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents ; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanish'd with variety of scents, 

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 

Like lightning off from his « melodious twang." 3 

CHI. 
Those grand heroics acted as a spell :•' 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions : 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions 
(For 't is not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his opinions) ; 
Michael took refuge in his trump— but lo! 
His teeth were set on edge, — he could not blow ! 



i See - Life of H. Kirke 'White.* 

2 Ring Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, said, (hat 
u had he'been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have 
spared the Maker some absurdities." 

3 See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared « with 
a curious perfume and a melodious twang ;» or see the Antiquary, 
vol.1. 



M0RGANTE MAGGIORE. 



495 



CIV. 

Saiut Peter, who has hitherto been known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 

And at the fifth line knock' d the poet down; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown, 
A different web being hy the destinies 

Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

CV. 

He first sunk to the bottom — like his works, 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself : 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks, l 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 

* A drowned body lies at the bottom tiil rotten ; it then f 
most people know 



Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
In his own den, to scrawl some « Life» or « Vision," 
As Welborn says — « the devil turn'd precisian. » 

CVI. 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown : 

All I saw further in the last confusion, 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one: 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF PULCI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando In- 
namorato the honour of having formed and suggested 
the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of 
Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives 
of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his con- 
tinuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, 
has avoided the one, and Berni, in his reformation of 
Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be 
considered as the precursor and model of Berni al- 
together, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however 
inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder 
of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in Eng- 
land. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. 
The serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same language, 
and more particularly the excellent one of iMr Merivale, 
are to be traced to the same source. It has never yet 
been decided entirely, whether Pulci's intention was or 
was not to deride the religion, which is one of his fa- 
vourite topics. It appears to me, that such an intention 
would have been no less hazardous to the poet than to 
the priest, particularly in that age and country; and 
the permission to publish the poem, and its reception 
among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was 
nor is so interpreted. That he intended to ridicule 
the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play 
with the simple dulness of his converted giant, seems 
evident enough; but surely it were as unjust to accuse 
him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Fielding 
for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Supple, 
and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or Scott, for the 
exquisite use of his Covenanters in the « Tales of my 
Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty 
of the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses 
Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone : Carlo, Carlomagno, or 
Carlomano ; Rondel, or Rondello, etc. as it suits his 
convenience, so has the translator. In other respects 



the version is faithful to the best of the translator's 
ability in combining his interpretation of the one lan- 
guage with the not very easy task of reducing it to 
the same versification in the other. The reader is re- 
quested to remember that the antiquated language of 
Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of 
Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan 
proverbs ; and he may therefore be more indulgent to 
the present attempt. How far the translator has suc- 
ceeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
are questions which the public will decide. He was 
induced to make the experiment partly by his love for, 
and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of 
which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and 
with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to 
become accurately conversant. The Italian language 
is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to 
all, her favours to few, and sometimes least to those who 
have courted her longest. The translator wished also 
to present in an English dress a part at least of a poem 
never yet rendered into a northern language : at the 
same time that it has been the original of some of the 
most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, 
as well as of those recent experiments in poetry in 
England which have been already mentioned. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 



CANTO I. 
I. 

In the beginning was the Word next God ; 

God was the Word, the Word no less was he; 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him nought could be 
Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 



496 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



II. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, hride, 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 
The day thy Gabriel said, « All hail!» to thee, 

Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied, 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind, 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 

'T was in the season when sad Philomel 

Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befel, 

And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow; 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly — and wrote worse. 



Leonardo Aretino said already, 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 

No hero would in history look brighter; 
lie in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who for the church and Christian faitli had wrought, 
Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore, 
The abbey no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 

Because of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according to the story, 

And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 

VII. 

But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise, 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow, 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 

Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles, in court, of whom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 

While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do, 

And Dante in his comedy has given 

To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 



IX. 

'T was Christmas-day; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphant sport, 

The much renown'd Saint Dennis being the cause; 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 



Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salemone, 

Walter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, 
Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 

Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
The son of Pepin : — when his knights came hither, 
He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 

But watchful fortune lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gaiust our intents to bring. 

While Charles reposed him thus in word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing; 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 

To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king, 

One day he openly began to say, 

« Orlando must we always then obey? 

XII. 

« A thousand times I 've been about to say, 

Orlando too presumptuously goes on; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 

Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
Each have to honour thee and to obey; 

But he has too much credit near the throne, 
Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 

« And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know he was a gallant knight, 

And by the fount did much the day to win; 
But I know who that day had won the fight 

If it had not for good Cherardo been : 
The victory was Almonte's else, his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 

XIV. 

«If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 

When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christian cause had suffer'd shamefully, 
Had not his valour driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor! that all complain: 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I cross'd with two-and-sixty counts. 

XV. 

«'T is fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
So that each here many have his proper part, 

For the whole court is more or less in grief : 
Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ?» 

Orlando one day heard this spech in brief, 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart: 

Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 

But much more still that Charles should give him credit. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



497 



XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder'd Gnn, 
But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 

And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
And thus at length they separated were. 

Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there; 

Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 

And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 

XVII. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He tookCortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards IJrara prick' d him o'er the plain; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 

Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 
Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 

As « Welcome my Orlando home," she said, 

Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XVIII. 

Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 

Which Aldabella thought extremely strange, 
But soon Orlando found himself awake; 

And his spouse took his bridle on this change, 
And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 

Of every thing which pass'd without demur, 

And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
And far as Pagan countries roam'd astrav, 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remember'd by the way; 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

Midst glens obscure, and distant lands he found, 

Which form'd the Christian's and the Pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot wascall'd Clermont, and by blood 

Descended from Angrante : under cover 
Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over ! 
One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 

And Alabaster and Morgante hover 
Second and third, with certain slings, and throw- 
In daily jeopardy the place below. 

XXI. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood, 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 

Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 

And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, « You are welcome; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 

With us in Mary Mother's son divine ; 

And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 

The reason why our gate was barr'd to you; 

Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 



XXIII. 

« When hither to inhabit first we came 

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 

As you perceive, yet withour fear or blame 
They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure; 

But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

XXIV. 

« These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch, 

For Jate there have appear'd three giants rough; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff. 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do till matters change. 

XXV. 
« Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 

For just and holy works were duly fed; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, t is certain 

That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 
But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 
bread, 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 
«The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far; he 

Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 
And flings tbem, our community to bury, 

And all that I can do but more provokes. » 
While thus they parley in the cemetery, 

A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
Which nearly crush'd R.ondeil, came tumbling over, 
So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXVII. 
«For God sake, cavalier, come in with speed, 

The manna's falling now,» the abbot cried : 
«This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 

Dear Abbot,» Roland unto him replied; 
« Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good-will and aim applied. » 
The holy father said, « I don't deceive; 
They '11 one day fling the mountain, I believe." 

XXVTII. 
Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own : 
« Abbot,» he said, « I want to find that fellow 

Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone. » 
Said the abbot, « Let not my advice seem shallow, 

As to a brother dear I speak alone; 
I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

«That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stcnes, that yield you must; 
You know that giants have much stouter hearts 

Than us, with reason, in proportion just; 
If go you will, guard well against their arts, 

For these are very barbarous and robust.» 
Orlando answer'd, «This I '11 see, be sure, 

And walk the wild on foot to be secure.» 

6?. 



49« 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
« Then go you with God's benison and mine;» 

Orlando, after lie had scaled the mount, 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 

Then asked him, «If he wish'd to stay as servant?" 

xxx r. 

And promised him an office of great ease ; 

Rut, said Orlando, « Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 

Vile dog! 't is past his patience to sustain. » 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
Wheu lie received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being return'd to where Orlando stood, 

Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
As shovv'd a sample of his skill in slinging; 

It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 

And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 

So that he swoon'd with paiu as if he died, 

Rut more than dead, he seem'd so stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
Said, « I will go, and, while he lies along, 

Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?» 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 

Especially Orlando, such a knight, 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 

While the giant goes to put off his defences, 

Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, « Giant, where dost go? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid; 
To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
'T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low.» 

The giant his astonishment betray'd, 
And turn'd about, and slopp'd his journey on, 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand, 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed — 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And Pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
Rut while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, « What grace to me thou 'st given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord, am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Siuce by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even; 

Our power without thine aid would nought be found : 
I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman.» 



XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two, 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 

« Iiow think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ?» 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
He suddenly betook him to his sling. 

XXXVIII. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission, 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 

There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'erthrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode, 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode, 

And shut himself at night within his birth. 
Orlando knock'd, and knock'd, again to goad 

The giant from his sleep; and he came forth, 
The door to open, like a crazy thing, 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him, 

And Mahomet he call'd, but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him; 

Rut praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him; 

And to the gate he came with great regret — 
« Who knocks here? » grumbling all the while, said he: 
«That,» said Orlando, «you will quickly see. 

XLI. 

«I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repentance; 

For Providence divine, in you and others, 

Condemns the evil done by new acquaintance. 

'T is writ on high — your wrong must pay another's; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence; 

Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 

I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

XL II. 

Morgante said, «0 gentle cavalier! 

Now by thy God say me no villany; 
The favour of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy. » 
Replied Orlando, « So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLIII. 
The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

« I have had an extraordinary vision; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone, 

And Macon would not pity my condition; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition: 
His timely succour set me safe and free, 
And I a Christian am disposed to be.» 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



499 



XLIV. 
Orlando answer'd, « Baron just and pious, 

If this good wish your heart can really move 
To the true God, who will not then deny us 

Eternal honour, you will go above. 
And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 

And I will love you with a perfect love. 
Your idols are vain liars full of fraud, 
The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLV. 

«The Lord descended to the virgin breast 

Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 

Without whom neither sun or star can shine, 
Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test, 

Your renegado God, and worship mine, — 
Baptise yourself with zeal, since ycu repent. » 
To which Morgan te answer'd, « I 'm content. >v 

XLVI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 
And made much of his convert, as he cried, 

« To the abbey I will gladly marshal vou :» 
To whom Morgante, « Let us go,» replied; 

•< I to the friars have for peace to sue.» 

Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 

Saying, « My brother, so devout and good, 

Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 

XLVIL 

« Since God has granted your illumination, 

Accepting you in mercy for his own, 
Humility should be your first oblation. » 

Morgante said, « For goodness' sake make known- 
Since that your God is to be mine — your station, 

And let your name in verity be shown; 
Then will I every thing at your command do.» 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

« Then,» quoth the giant, « blessed be Jesu, 
A thousand times with gratitude and praise! 

Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 

Through all the different period of my days: 

And, as I said, to be your vassal too 

I wish, for your great gallantry always. >» 

Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 

And onwards to the abbey went their way. 

XLIX. 

And by the way, about the giants dead 
Orlando with Morgante reason'd: « Be, 

For their decease, I pray you, comforted, 
And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me; 

A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred, 
And our true scripture soundeth openly — 

Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 

Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 

L. 

« Because his love of justice unto all 

Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 

All who have sin, however great or small ; 
But good he well remembers to restore : 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore : 

All men must make his will their wishes sway, 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 



IJ. 

« And here our doctors are of one accord, 

Coming on this point to the same conclusion — 

That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord, 
If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 

For their unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 

Their happiness would be reduced to nought, 

And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LIL 

« But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which seems to him, to them too must appear 

Well done; nor could it otherwise befal; 
He never can in any purpose err : 

If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, 

They don't disturb themselves for him or her; 

What pleases God to them must joy inspire; — 

Such is the observance of the eternal choir. » 

Lilt, 

«A word unto the wise,» Morgante said, 
«Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 

How much I grieve about my brethren dead; 
And if the will of God seem good to me, 

Just, as you tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd — 
Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be ! 

I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 

And carry them unto the holy monks. 

LIV. 
« So that all persons may be sure and certain 

That they are dead, and have no further fear 
To wander solitary this desert in, 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain 

Of darkness, making his bright realm appear.» 
He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 
And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 

LV. 

Then to the abbey they went on together, 

Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 

The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
To their superior, all in breathless rout, 

Saying, with tremor, « Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out?» 

The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 

Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 

LVI. 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 

Said quickly, « Abbot, be thou of good cheer; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 

And hath renounced his Macon false ;» which here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear: 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, «Thou hast contented me, oh Lord!» 

LVII. 

He gazed; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And more than once contemplated his size; 

And then he said, «Oh giant celebrated, 
Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 

How you could tear and fling the trees you late did, 
When I behold your form with my own eyes. 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 



5oo BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


LVIII. 


LXV. 


« And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 


The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 


Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 


The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 


Tiil one day hy the Spirit being inflamed, 


On to the abbey, though by no means near, 


'Why dost thou persecute me thus?' said Christ; 


Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 


And then from his offence he was reclaim'd, 


Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 


And -went for ever after preaching Christ; 


With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 


And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 


Marveli'd to see his strength so very great; — 


O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 


So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 


LIX. 


Lxvr. 


«So, my Morgante, you may do likewise; 


The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 


He who repents, — thus writes the Evangelist, — 


Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork; 


Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 


All animals are glad at sight of food: 


Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 


They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 


You may be sure, should each desire arise 


With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 


With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 


That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 


Among the happy saints for evermore; 


Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 


But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !» 


For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 


LX. 


LXVIT. 


And thus great honour to Morgante paid 


As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate; 


The abbot; many days they did repose. 


And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 


One day, as with Orlando thev both stray'd, 


In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 


And saunter' d here and there, where'er they chose, 


Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 


The abbot show'd a chamber where array'd 


The abbot, who to all did honour great, 


Much armour was, and hung up certain bows; 


A few days after this convivial scene, 


And one of these Morgante for a whim 


Gave to Morgante a fine horse well train'd, 


Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 


Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 


Lxr. 


LXVIH. 


There being a want of water in the place, 


The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 


Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 


To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 


« Morgante, I could wish you in this case 


Thinking that he a back of iron had, 


To go for water.» « You shall be obey'd 


Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough; 


In all commands,)) was the reply, « straightway." 


But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 


Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 


And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. 


And went out on his way unto a fountain, 


Morgante said, « Get up, thou sulky cur!» 


Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 


And still continued pricking with the spur. 


LXir. 


LXIX. 


Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 


But finally he thought fit to dismount, 


Which suddenly along the forest spread; 


And said, « I am as light as any feather, 


Whereat from out his cjuiver he prepares 


And he has burst — to this what say you, count?» 


An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 


Orlando answer'd, «Like a ship's mast rather 


And lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 


You seem to me, and with the truck for front: — 


And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 


Let him go, fortune wills that we together 


And to the fountain's brink precisely pours, 


Should march, but you on foot, Morgante, still. » 


So that the giant's join'd by all the boars. 


To which the giant answered, «So I will. 


LXIil. 


LXX. 


Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 


«When there shall be occasion, you shall see 


Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 


How I approve my courage in the fight.» 


And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough, 


Orlando said, « I really think you 11 be, 


So that the boar, defunct, lay tiipp'd up near. 


If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight, 


Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, 


Nor will you napping there discover me: 


Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 


But never mind your horse, though out of sight 


And reach' d the passage with so swift a foot, 


T were best to carry him into some wood, 


Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 


If but the means or way I understood. » 


LX1V. 


lxxl 


Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 


The giant said, « Then carry him I will, 


He gave him such a punch upon the head « 


Since that to carry me he was so slack — 


As tloor'd him, so that he no more arose — 


To render, as the gods do, good for ill; 


Smashing the very bone; and he fell dead 


But lend a hand to place him on my back.» 


Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 


Orlando answer'd, «If my counsel still 


The other pigs along the valley fled ; 


May weigh, Morgante, do not uudertake 


Morgante on his neck the bucket took, 


To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 


Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 


As you have done to him, will do to you. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



5o: 



LXXII. 

«Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
As Nessus did of old heyond all cure; 

I don't know if the fact you \e heard or read, 
But he will make you hurst, you may he sure.» 

« But help him on my hack,» Morgante said, 
« And you shall see what weight I can endure : 

In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 

With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry.» 

Lxxnr. 

The abbot said, « The steeple may do well, 

But, for the bells, you've broken them, I \vot.» 

Morgante answer'd, « Let them pay in hell 
The penalty, who lie dead in yon grot:» 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
He said, « Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ;» — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXX1V. 

Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family; 
And, fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once more he bade him lay his burthen by : 
«Put down, nor bear him further the desert in.» 
Morgante said, « I'll carry him for certain. » 

LXXV. 

He did; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 

Orlando said, « Why longer do we stay? 
Morgante, here is nought to do indeed. » 

The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
And said with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his Reverence ; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 

LXXVI. 

The honours they continued to receive 

Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd : 

He said, «I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 

The lost days of time past, which may be blamed; 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXVII. 

« But in my heart I bear through every clime, 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 

So much I love you in so short a time; 

For me, from heaven reward you with all good 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood : 

Meanwhile we stand expectant of your blessing, 

And recommend us to your prayers with pressings 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 

Such fervour in his bosom bred each word; 
And, « Cavalier," he said, « if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I "ve done too little in this case; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 



LXXIX. 

We can indeed but honour you with masses, 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, 

Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters); 

But such a love for you my heart embraces, 

For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 

That wheresoe'er you go, I too shall be, 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

«This may involve a seeming contradiction, 
But you, I know, are sage, and feel, and taste, 

And understand my speech with full conviction. 
For your just pious deeds may you be graced 

W T ith the Lord's great reward and benediction, 
By whom you were directed to this waste: 

To his high mercy is our freedom due, 

For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXI. 

« You saved at once our life and soul: such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost; 

But months and years you could not stay in sloth, 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth ; 

LXXXII. 

« But to bear arms and wield the lance; indeed, 
With these as much is done as with this cowl; 

In proof of which the scripture you may read. 
This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 

By your compassion; now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll, 

But, if I 'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 

That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 

LXXXIII. 

« If you want armour or aught else, go in, 

Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you chuse. 

And cover with it o'er this giant's skin.» 

Orlando answer'd, « If there should lie loose 

Some armour, ere our journey we begin, 

Which might be turn'd to my companion's use, 

The gift would be acceptable to me.» 

The abbot said to him, «Come in and see.» 

LXXX IV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was cover'd with old armonr like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, « I give you all.» 

Morgaute rummaged piece-meal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 

Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 

LXXXV. 

'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 

By the great Milo of Argante fell 
Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wall was figured well; 
In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 

Who long had waged a war implacable: 
Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 
And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 



502 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Lxxxvr. 

Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 

In his own heart, « Oh God ! •who in the sky 

Know'st all tilings, how was Milo hither led, 
Who caused the giant in this place to die?» 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you, the high King of Glory! 



Note l. Page 5oo, stanza 64. 
He gaye him such a punch upon the head. 
«Gli dette in sulla testa un gran punzone.w It is 
strange that Pulci should have literally anticipated the 
technical terms of my old friend and master, Jackson, 
and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. 
« A punch on the head,* or « a punch in Hie head,* 
« un punzone in sulla testa, « is the exact and frequent 
phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they 
are talking the purest Tuscan. 



mam-, 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 



Oualis in Eurotae ripis, aut perjuga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana choros. 

VIRGIL. 

Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, 
When in the danc« the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads. 
DRYDEN'S VIRGIL. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 



Sir, 

I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I 
might have been a parliament-man for a certain bo- 
rough, having had the offer of as many votes as 
General 1\ at the general election in 1812. ' But I 
was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, 
on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid 
of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till 
last season, when my wife and I were invited by the 
Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) 
to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and 
our girls being come to a marriageable (or as they call 
it, marketable) age, and having besides a chancery suit 
inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came 
up in our old chariot, of which, by the bye, my wife 
grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was 
obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I 
might mount the box, Mrs H. says, if I could drive, 
but never see the inside — that place being reserved 
for the honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner- 
general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of 
Mrs H.'s dancing (she was famous for birth-night mi- 
nuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, 
and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see 
a country dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all 
the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge of my 
surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs Hornem 
with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar- 
looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, 
to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, 
turning round, and round, and round, to a d d see- 



saw up and down sort of tune, that reminded me of 
the «black joke, » only more « affettuoso,* till it made 
me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By 
and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would 
sit or fall down:— but, no; with Mrs H.'s hand on his 
shoulder, <.<quamfamiliariter» 2 (as Terence said when 
I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then 
at it again, like two cock-chafers spitted on the same 
bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a 
loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a 
name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
though her mother would call her after the Princess 
of Swappenbach), said, « Lord, Mr Hornem, can't you 
see they are valtzing,» or waltzing (I forget which) ; and 
then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away 
they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now 
that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so 
does Mrs H. (though I have broken my shins, and four 
times overturned Mrs Hornem's maid in practising the 
preliminary steps in a morning.) Indeed, so much do 
I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed 
in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the j 
victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that 
way) I sat down, and with the aid of W. F. Esq., and 
a few hints from Dr B. (whose recitations I attend, and 
am monstrous fond of Master B.'s manner of delivering 
his father's late successful D. L. address), I composed 
the following hymn, wherewithal to make my senti- 
ments known to the public, whom, nevertheless, I 
heartily despise as well as the critics. 



I am, Sir, yours, etc., etc. 



HORACE HORNEM. 



WALTZ. 



5o3 



WALTZ 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! 3 -whose charms 

Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 

Terpsichore! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 

Reproachful term — bestow' d but to upbraid — 

Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude; 

Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield; 

Dance forth — sans armour thou shalt take the field, 

And own — impregnable to most assaults, 

Thy not too lawfully begotten « Waltz.» 

Hail nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war — 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots, 
A sight uumatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's^ fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his aim. 
Hail moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To « energise the object I pursue," 
And give both Belial aud his dance their due! — 

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine). 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
As heaven -born Pitt can testify below; 
Ere cursed confederation mide thee France's, 

And only left us thy d d debts and dances ; 

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 

We bless thee still — for George the Third is left! 

Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 

For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 

To Germany, and highnesses serene, 

Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen? 

To Germany what owe we not besides ? 

So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 

Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 

Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 

Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 

A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen — and Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's «fiat;» 
Back to my theme — Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? 



Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales, 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails) 
Ere yet unlucky fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep : 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies; 
While unburnt Moscow 5 yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true dispatches, and as true gazettes : 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest dispatch 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composer's airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and to back it, 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
His grand pas-seul excited some remark; 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; 
Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
Display'd so much of ley, or more of neck, 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 
To you — ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; 
To you of nine years less — who only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
With added ornaments around them roll'd, 
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold; 
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match ! 
To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 
Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 
To you — ye single gentlemen, who seek 
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; 
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, 
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride; 
To one and all the lovely stranger came, 
And every ball-room echoes with her name. 



Endearing Waltz — to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon; 
Scotch reels avaunt ! and, country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe: 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs aud arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray « put out the light. » 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near; 
And true, though strange — x .Yaltz whispers this remark, 
« My slippery steps are safest in the dark !» 
But here the muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 



5o4 



BYRON'S WORKS- 



Observant travellers! of every time; 
Ye quartos, publish' d upon every clime; 
say shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound; 
Can Egypt's Almas 6 — tantalizing group- 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamschalka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne? 
Ah, no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for « Waltz. » 

Shades of those belles, whose reign began of yore, 
With George the Third's — and ended long before — ■ 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host: 
Fool's paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
No stiff starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache; 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage,7 women in their shape); 
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial, « Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim' d thee half a whore; 
Werter — to decent vice though much inclined, 
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind — 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads ; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme mv strain exalts, 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of « Waltz. » 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut: 

The court, the R 1, like herself were new; 8 

New face for friends, for foes some new rewards, 
New ornaments for black and royal guards; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most new)9 to follow those that fled; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 't is true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks), 10 
New white -sticks, gold -sticks, broom-sticks, all new 

sticks! 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 
So saith the muse — my — ", what say you! 
Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such, 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much; 
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, 
And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 



The ball begins — the honours of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — 

With K— t's gay grace, or sapient G— st— r's mien, 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 

That spot where hearts 12 were once supposed to be; 

Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip; 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal: 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank, 

The Earl of Asterisk — and Lady Ulank ; 

Sir Such a one — with those of fashion's host, 

For whose blest surnames — vide "Morning Post;» 

(Or if for that impartial print too late, 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date). 

Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, 

The genial contact gently undergo; 

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 

If <■<■ nothing follows all this palming work?» l3 

True, honest Mirza — you may trust my rhyme — 

Something does follow at a fitter time; 

The breast, thus publicly resign'd to man, 

In private may resist him — if it can. 

O ye! who loved our grandmothers of yore, 

F-tz — t — k, Sh — r — d — n, and many more ! 

And thou, my prince, whose sovereign taste and will 

It is to love the lovely beldames still; 

Thou, ghost of Q ! whose judging sprite 

Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss, 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes; 
Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame : 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 

For what our morals are to be, or ought; 

Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 

Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 

Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 

Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side ; 

Where were the rapture then to clasp the form, 

From this lewd grasp, and lawless contact warm ? 

At once love's most endearing thought resign, 

To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 

To gaze upon that eye which never met 

Another's ardent look without regret; 

Approach the lip which all without restraint, 

Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint .; 

If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 

Or give — like her — caresses to a score; 

Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 

The little left behind it to bestow. 



WALTZ. 



5o5 



Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare T thus blaspheme? 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore forgive! — at every ball 
My wife now ■waltzes — and my daughterss/irtl/; 
My son (or stop — 't is needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire; 
Somes ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will -wear as green a bough for him as me), 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



NOTES. 

Note 1. Page 5o2, line 36. 

State of the poll (last day) 5. 

Note 2. page 5o2,line 36. 

My latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought 
my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three 
shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even 
sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all 
for the memory of Perceval, and « no popery;» and 
quite regretting the downfal of the pope, because -we 
can't burn him any more. 

Note 3. Page 5o3, line i. 
« Glance their many-twinkling feet.» — Giur. 

Note 4. Page 5o3, line 21. 
To rival Lord W.'s, or his nephew's, as the reader 
pleases: — the one gained a pretty -woman, whom he 
deserved, by fighting for ; and the other has been fight- 
ing in the Peninsula many a long day, «by Shrewsbury 
clock,» without gaining any thing in that country but 
the title of « the Great Lord,» and « the Lord,» which 
savours of profanation, having been hitherto applied 
only to that Being, to whom « Te Deumsn for carnage 
are the rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the 
general will one clay return to his Sabine farm, there 
.u To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain !» 

The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a 
summer; we do more — we contrive both to conquer 
and lose them in a shorter season. If the « great Lord's» 
Cincinnatian progress in agriculture be no speedier 
than the proportional average of time in Popes couplet, 
it will, according to the farmer's proverb, be « plough- 
ing with dogs.» 

By the by — one of this illustrious person's new titles 
is forgotten — it is, however, worth remembering — « Sal- 
vador del mnndo /» credite, posteri .' If this be the 
appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula 
to the name of a man who has not yet saved them — 
query — are they worth saving even in this world ? for, 
according to the mildest modifications of any Christian 
creed, those three words make the odds much against 
them in the next.— « Saviour of the world, » quotha! — 
it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could save 
a corner of it — his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, 
although it shows the near connexion between super- 
stition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves 
there can be little to dread from those Catholics (in- 
quisitorial Catholics too) who can confer such an ap- 
pellation on a Protestant. I suppose next year he will 
be entitled the « Virgin Mary :» if so, Lord George Gor- 



don himself would have nothing to object to such liberal 
bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 

Note 5. Page 5o3, line 65. 
The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be 
sufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. Amongst 
other details omitted in the various dispatches of our 
eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much 
occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swim- 
ming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impass- 
able), that one entire province perished by famine in 
the most melancholy manner, as follows :- — In General 
Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the consump- 
tion of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market 
was inadequate to the demand : and thus one hundred 
and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death, 
by being reduced to wholesome diet ! The lamplighters 
of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, 
and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a 
quantity of best moulds (four to the pound) to the re- 
lief of the surviving Scythians — the scarcity will soon, 
by such exertions, and a proper attention to the quality 
rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alle- 
viated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine 
has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal 
to our suffering manufacturers. 

Note 6. Page 5o4, line 5. 

Dancing -girls — who do for hire what Waltz doth 
gratis. 

Note 7. Page 5o4, line 20. 

It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baus- 
siere's time, of the « Sieur de la Croix, » that there be 
« no whiskers;» but how far these are indications of 
valour in the field, or elsewhere, may still be question- 
able. Much may be and hath been avouched on both 
sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers 
and soldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven — Han- 
nibal thought his one eye handsome enough without 
a beard ; but Adrian, the Emperor, wore a beard 
(having warts on his chin, which neither the Empress 
Sabina, nor even the courtiers could abide) — Turenne 
had whiskers, Marlborough none — Buonaparte is un- 

whiskered, the R whiskered; « argal,» greatness of 

mind and whiskers may or may not go together: but 
certainly the different occurrences, since the growth of 
the last-mentioned, go further in behalf of whiskers 
than the anathema of Anselm did against long hair in 
the reign of Henry I. 

Formerly red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick 
Barrey's comedy of Ram Alley, 1661, act I. scene 1. 

« Taffeta. Now, for a wager — What coloured beard 
comes next by the window ? 

vAdriana. A black man's, I think. 

« Taffeta. I think not so ; 1 think a red, for that 
is most in fashion. » 

There is « nothing new under the sun ;» but red, 
then a favourite, has now subsided into a favourite's 
colour. 

Note 8. Page 5o4, line 40. 

An anachronism — Waltz, and the battle of Austerlitz 
are before said to have opened the ball together; the 
bard means (if he means any thing), Waltz was not so 

much in vogue till the R 1 attained the acme of 

his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the 
new government, illuminated heaven and earth, in aii 

64 



>o6 



BYRON'S WORKS 



their glory, much about the same time ; of these the 
comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue 
to astonish us still. 

Printer's Devil. 

Note 9. Page 5o4, line 44- 
Amongst others a new iriuepence — a creditable coin 
now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fair- 
est calculation. 

Note 10. Page 5o4, line 5i. 

« Oh that right should thus overcome might!» Who 
does not remember the « delicate Investigation)) in the 
« Merry Wives of Windsor?)) 

Ford. Pray you come near: if I suspect without 
cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be 
your jest; I deserve it. How now? whither bear you 
this ? 

Mrs Ford. What have you to do whither they bear 
it? — you were best meddle with buck-washing. » 

Note 11. Page 5o4, line 56. 
The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank 
as he pleases — there are several dissyllabic names at Ids 



service (being already in the R t's) : it would not be 

fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, 
as every month will add to the lists now entered for the 
sweepstakes— a distinguished consonant is said to be 
the favourite, much against the wishes of the knowing 
ones. 

Note 12. Page 5o4, line 70. 
«We have changed all that,» says the Mock Doctor, 
« 't is all gone — Asmodeus knows where. After all, it 
is of no great importance how women's hearts are dis- 
posed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them 
as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men 
with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those 
phenomena often mentioned in natural history ; viz. a 
mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and 
when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, 
and with the reputation of being venomous.)) 

Note 1 3. Page 5o4, line 90. 
In Turkey a pertinent — here an impertinent and 
superfluous question — literally put, as in the text, by 
a Persian to Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera. — Fide 
Morier's Travels. 



KM %ammt of &a$$o. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



At Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
Fido, -with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto, 
and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of 
the latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for 
posterity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St Anna 
attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 
monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. 
There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the 
wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
much decayed and depopulated; the castle still exists en- 
tire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



1. 

Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 

And eagle-spirit of a child of song — 

Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 

Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 

And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 

When the impatient thirst of light and air 

Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate, 

Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 

Works through the throbbing eye-ball to the brain 

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 

And bare, at once, captivity display'd 

Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, 

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 



And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 

And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 

Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 

Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 

For I have battled with mine agony, 

And made me wings wherewith to overfly 

The narrow circus of my dungeon-wall, 

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; 

And reveli'd among men and things diviae, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 

For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

i have employ'd my penance to record 

Mow Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 



II. 



Cut this is o'er — my pleasant task is done: 

My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears, 

Know that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 

But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 

Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 

For I have anguish yet to bear — and how! 

I know not that — but in the innate force 

Of my own spirits shall be found resource. 

I have not suuk, for I had no remorse, 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



;)u- 



Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad — and why? 

Oh Leonora! wilt not tliou reply? 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my frenzy was not of the mind; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I suffer it unbent 

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind : 

But let them go, or torture as they will, 

■My heart can multiply thine image still; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the faithful ; 't is their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay, 

And every passion into one dilate, 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 

III. 

Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in captivity. 

And hark! the lash and the increasing howl. 

And the half- inarticulate blasphemy! 

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind, 

And dim the little light that's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrant will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd: 

Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 

So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet; 
I had forgotten half I would forget, 
But it revives — oh! would it were my lot 
To be forgetful as I am forgot! — 
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
In this vast lazar-house of many woes 1 
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
For we are crowded iu our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall, 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods; — 
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call — 
i None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 
! Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
I Nor bound between distraction and disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men, 
Debarring me the usage of my own, 
Blighting my life in best of its career, 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? 
Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 
And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
Which undermines our stoical success? 
No! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
Yes, sister of my sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast — 
It hath no business where thou art a guest , 



Thy brother hates — but I can not detest, 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 

V. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame. 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew : 
I knew thy state, my station, and 1 knew 
A princess was no love-mate for a bard; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine. 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow' d and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above: 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master' d mine — 
My star stood still before thee: — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, 
j And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 
My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
And mingle with whate' er I saw on earth ; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 
Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made, 
And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Return' d and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
And the whole heart exhaled into one want. 
But undefined and wandering, till the day 



5o8 



BYRON'S WORK! 



I found the tiling I sought— and that was ihee ; 
And then I lost my being, all to be 
Absorb'd in thine — the world was past away — 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 

I loved all solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant : had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave ; 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore; 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky? — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof. 

VIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to one, who long hath suffer d so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but man, 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the powers of evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire ! because I loved ! 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 



IX. 
I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 
In mockery through them ; — if I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 
Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
And woo compassion to a blighted name, 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
While thou Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
And crumbling piece-meal view thy hearthless halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! 
And thou, Leonora ! thou— who wert ashamed 
That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 
By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
A taint of that he would impute to me, 
From long infection of a den like this, 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,— 
Adores thee still ;— and add— that when the towers 
And battlements which guard his joyous hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
Or left untended in a dull repose, 
This— this shall be a consecrated spot ! 
But thou — when all that birth and beauty throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in death can tear our names apart, 
As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late ! 



Wtebveto jiMofcu^. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The subsequent poems were written at the request of 
my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a Selection of 
Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the 
music, arranged by Mr Braham and Mr Nathan. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

SHt walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 



And all that 's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



boy 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
The king of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which Music hallow' d while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! 

It soften'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 

That felt not, fired not to the tone, 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 

It told the triumphs of our king, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world , which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving love endears; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light— Eternity ! 

It must be so : 't is not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to being's severing link. 
Oh! in that future let us think 

To 1 hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 

May glance in tameless transport by : — 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 

More blest each palm that shades those plain: 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace: 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 



But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream , 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell ! 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest! 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave! 



ON JORDAN'S RANKS. 

On Jordan's banks the Arabs' camels stray, 

On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — Oh God! thy thunders sleep 

There — where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire ! 

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear! 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod? 
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our country, our God — Oh, my sire ! 
Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now ! 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my father ! be sure — 

That the blood of thy child is as pure 

As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 

And the last thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my father and country are free! 

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd. 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



DIO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



OH! SNATCfl'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. 

On ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream; 
And lingering pause, and lightly tread, 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 

Away! we know that tears are vain, 

That death n»or heeds nor bears distress : 

Will this uuteach us to complain? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 

My soul is dark. — Oh! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again; 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain : 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nurst, 

And ached in sleepless silence long; 
And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 

I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 

Game o'er that eye of blue; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine, 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 
Thy country's strains record 



The triumphs of her chosen son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won. 

The freedom he restored ! 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thoushalt not taste of death! 

The generous blood that flow'd from the 
Disdain'd to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath : 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong; 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. 

Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day! 



SAUL. 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead. 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

« Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer !« 
Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud : 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd and his veins were dry; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare : 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame. 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

« Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead? 
Is it thou, oh king? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine, to-morrow, when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow : 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



5i 



And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul !» 



«ALL IS VANITY, SA1TII THE PREACHER. 

Fame, -wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And health and youth possess'd me; 
My goblets blush' d from every vine, 

And lovely forms caress'd me; 
Isunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitier'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh! who hath power of charming? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darkeo'd dust behind. 
Then, unernbodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey! 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recal: 
Each fainter trace that memory holds, 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad giance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appeai-s. 

Before creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back : 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, 
It lives all passionless and pure : 



An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF RELSHAZZAR. 

The king was on his throne, 

The satraps throng'dthe hall; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless heathen's wine! 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall. 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man, 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless wax'd his look, 
And tremulous his voice. 
« Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear 
Which mar our royal mirth. » 

Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood, 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

« Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom pass'd away; 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy, the stone; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne !» 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS ! 

Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 



j 012 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays; 
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — hut, oh how cold! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou sayest, is the crime of my race. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free! 
If the exile on earth is an outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but iu mine I w 7 ill die. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow. 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
Ah, couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She 's gone, who shared my diadem ! 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing : 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming. 
And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming: 
And I have earn'd those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when reuder'd to Rome : 
'T was thy last sun wen t down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flash'd hack on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 



On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away : 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! 

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



BY THE RIYERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN 
AND W T EPT. 

We sat down- and wept by the waters 

Of Dabel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem's high places his prey; 
And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 

Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 

Which roll'd on in freedom below, 
They demanded the song ; but, oh never 

That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
May this right hand be wither'd for ever, 

Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, — 
Oh Salem! its sound should be free; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended, 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me! 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
| And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea ! 
i When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

; Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
j That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
liath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



FROM JOB. 
A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 
The face of immortality unveil'd; 
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine- 
And there it stood, — ail formless — but divine • 
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; 
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake : 



« Is man more just than God? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of .clay! vain dwellers in the dust! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just? 
Things of a day! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to wisdom's wasted light !» 



Mi8teUaneou$ itotmg. 



ODE 



NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



« Expende Annibalem : — quot libras in duce summo 
Invenies?» JUVENAL, Sat. X. 



u The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the 
Italians, and by the provincials of Gaul ; his moral virtues and mili- 
tary talents were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any 
private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains 
| the restoration of public felicity. 



By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in 

very ambiguous state, between an emperor and an exile, till • 

GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi, p. 220. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 

'T is done — but yesterday a king ! 

Andarm'd with kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing 

So abject — yet alive! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones? 

And can he thus survive? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind, 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to save— 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more 
Than high philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those pagod things of sabre-sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 



The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — * 
The earthquake shout of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd!— Dark spirit! what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 

The desolator desolate ! 

The victor overthrown ! 
The arbiter of others' fate 

A suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope? 

Or dread of death alone? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He 2 who of old would rend the oak 

Dream'd not of the rebound; 
Chain' d by the trunk he vainly broke, — 

Alone — how look'd he round ? — 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed hast done at length, 

And darker fate hast found: 
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman, 3 when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home. 
He dared depart, in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

The Spaniard,* when the lust of sway 

Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 

His dotage trifled well : 

1 Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila, in his harnngue to 
his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus. 

2 Milo. 

3 Svlla. 

* Charles V. 

65 



5,4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet better had lie neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is -wrung; 
Too late thou leavest the high command 

To which thy weakness clung: 
All evil spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart, 

To see thine own unstrung; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain. 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay; 
Thy scales, mortality! are just 

To all that pass away ; 
But yet, methought, the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay; 
Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournfnl flower, 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ! j 

Then haste thee to thy sullen isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile, 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand, 
In loitering mood, upon the sand, 

That earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage 1 
What thoughts will there be thine, 

While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
But one — «The world xvas mine." 

The ca{je of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 



Unless, like he of Babylon, 

All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,' 

Wilt thou withstand the shock? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock? 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very fiend's arch mock; 2 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



MONODY 

ON THE 

DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN, 

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 

When the last sun-shine of expiring day 
In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes, 
While Nature makes that melancholy pause 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 
The voiceless thought which would notspeakbut weep, 
A holy concord and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 
'T is not harsh sorrow— but a tenderer woe, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Shed without shame, and secret without pain. 
Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
When summer's day declines along the hills, 
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 
When all of genius which can perish dies. 
A mighty spirit is eclipsed — a power 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 
Focus at once of all the fays of fame ! 
The flash of wit — the bright intelligence, 
I The beam of song — the blaze of eloquence, 
j Set with their sun — but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
i Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
j A deathless part of him who died too soon, 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 
Which all embraced— ^and lighten'd over all, 
To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
From the charm'd council to the festive board, 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 
The praised—the proud — who made his praise their pride. 

1 Prometheus. 

2 « The fiend's arch mock- 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste. » 

Shakspeart. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



1 



When the loud ery of trampled llindostan ' 

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder— his the avenging rod, 

The wrath— the delegated voice of God ! 

Which shook the nations through his lips — and blazed 

Till vanquish' d senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where, yet all young and warm, 

The gay creations of his spirit charm, 

The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 

Which knew not what it was to intermit; 

The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring 

Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; 

These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought 

To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 

Here in their first abode you still may meet, 

Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; 

A halo of the light of other days, 

Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 

Of failing wisdom yields a base delight, 

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 

Jar in the music which was born their own, 

Still let them pause — Ah! little do they know 

That what to them seem'd vice might be but woe. 

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 

Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise; 

Repose denies her requiem to his name, 

And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 

The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 

Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 

The foe— the fool— the jealous— and the vain, 

The envious who but breathe in others' pain, 

Behold the host! delighting to deprave, 

Who track the steps of glory to the grave, 

Watch every fault that daring genius owes 

Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 

Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 

And pile the pyramid of calumny ! 

These are his portion — but if join'd to these 

Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 

If the high spirit must forget to soar, 

And stoop to strive with misery at the door, 

To soothe indignity — and face to face 

Meet sordid rage— and wrestle with disgrace, 

To find in hope but the renew'd caress, 

The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,— 

If such may be the ills which men assail, 

What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? 

Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 

iiear hearts electric— charged with fire from heaven, 

Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 

By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 

Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 

Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder— scorch— and 

burst. 
But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be— if such have ever been ; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
To give the tribute Glory need net ask, 
To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 

1 See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr Sheridan's speech oil the 
charges exhibited against Mr Hastings in the House of Commons. 
Mr Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer 
consideration of the question than could then occur after the imme- 
diate effect of that oration. 



Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field ! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! ' 
Whose words were sparks of immortality ! 
Ye bards', to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
He was your master — emulate him here! 
Ye men of wit aud social eloquence! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence! 
While powers of mind almost of boundless ran^e, 
Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
While eloquence — wit — poesy — and mirth, 
That humbler harmonist of care on earth, 
Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan! 



THE IRISH AVATAR. 

Ere the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish'd Isle which he loved like his — 
bride. 

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause 

For the few little years, out of centuries won, 

Which betray d not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
cause. 

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, 

And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands. 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! 

He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score, 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 

But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er! 
Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart .' 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, , 

And a new spring of noble affections arise — 

Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, i 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies, i 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? 

Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 

Such servile devotion might shame him away. 

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 

1 Fox, Pitt, Burke. 



5i6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ever-glorious Grattan! the best of the good! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

i Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 

{ But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One! 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of 
his mind. 

But back to our theme! back to despots and slaves! 

Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! 
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, 

When a week's Saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord! 
Kiss his foot with thy blessings denied! 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay, 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
their prey? 

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, — 
To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 

The cause of the curses all annals contain, 

From Cesar the dreaded, to George the despised! 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Gonnell, proclaim 
His accomplishments! His! ! ! and thy country con- 
vince 

Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame, 

And that « Hal is the rascaliest sweetest young Prince !» 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recal 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? 

Ay! « Cuild him a dwelling !» let each give his mite! 

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! 

Spread — spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, 
Till the gluttonous despot be stuft to the gorge! 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd«GE0RGE!» 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe ! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 

Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has 
to flow. 

But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! 

Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! 
A wretch, never named but with curses and jeers! 



Till now, when the Isle which should blush for his birth, 
Deep, deep, as the gore which he shed on her soil, 

Seems proud of the reptile which craw'l from her earth, 
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile ! 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 

The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt, 
If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, 
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
spring — 

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, 
Still warming its folds in the lireast of a King! 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulph still. 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right, 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 

This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight, 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still 
for thee ! 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
land; 

I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sous, 
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 

Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 

For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled, 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy— thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon 
Power, 
'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! 
Sept. ldtlt, 1821. 



THE DllEABT 

I. 

Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their developement have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And look like heralds of eternity : 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sybils of the future; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that 's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recal a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 

Green and of mild declivity, the last 

As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 

Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 

Arising from such rustic roofs; — the hill 

Was crown' d with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful : 

And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood; 

The hoy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth, 

And that was shining on him; he had look'd 

Upon it rill it could not pass away; 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

Rut trembled on her words; she was his sight, 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 

Which colour'd all his objects; — he had ceased 

To live within himself ; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 't was much, 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and w] 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another; even now she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

There was an ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 

Within an antique oratory stood 

The boy of whom I spake ;— he was alone, 

And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which 1 could not guess of: then he lean'd 

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't were 

With a convulsion — then arose again, 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 

What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kiud of quiet : as he paused, 

The lady of his love re-enter'd there; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of uuutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded as it came; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and-with slow steps 

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 

For they did part with mutual smiles: he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way, 

And ne'er repass' d that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around: 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better: in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his,— her native home. 

She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 

Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 



31 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



What could her grief be? — she had all she loved, 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be? — she had loved him not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The star-light of his boyhood; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
And all things reel'd around him; he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have been — 
i But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hail, 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny came back, 
And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
What business had they there at such a time? 

VII. 

j A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

i The lady of his love; — oh ! she was changed 

I As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things; 
And forms, impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise 

I Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift; 
What is it but the telescope of truth? 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 

| Making the cold reality too real ! 

vnr. 

i A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

! The wanderer was alone as heretofore, 

I The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

[ Or were at war with him; he was a mark 

} For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

[ With hatred and contention ; pain was mix'd 

; In all which was served up to him, until, 

i Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, ' 

i He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

I But were a kind of nutriment; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

! And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 

♦ Mithridates of Pontns. 



And the quick spirit of the universe 

He held his dialogues; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal' d 

A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



ODE. 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep : 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 
Fs with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 
Crouching and crab-like through their sapping streets. 
Oh! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears, 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyraut's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song, 
That heaved beneath the moon-light with the throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overheating of the heart, 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
The weeds of nations in their last decay, 
When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors. 
And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; 
And hope is nothing but a false delay, 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which death is winning. 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; 
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, 
To him appears renewal of his breath, 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; — 
i And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 
! And of the fresher air, which he would seek; 
1 And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
| That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, 

S 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5j 9 



And so the film comes oer him — and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy 
At which he vainly catches, Hit and gleam, 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 



II. 
There is no hope for nations ! Search the page 

Of many thousand years— the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to be which hatli been, 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
For t is our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter' d in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
E\ en where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
What have they given your children in return? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, where vour hire is blows. 
What? do no yet the red-hot ploughshares bum, 
Oer which you stumble in a false ordeal, 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 
Kissiug the hand that guides vou to vour scars, 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
All that your sires have left you, ail that time 
Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime, 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read, 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed '. 
Save the few spirits, who despite of all, 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engendered 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tcnder'd, 
Gushing from freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings obli\ion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
The sand, — or if there sprung the yeliow grain, 
'T was not for them, their necks were too muchbow'd 
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 
Yes! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from nature's laws, 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 



Were of the softer order — born of love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten' d on the dead, 
But gladdeu'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For these restored the cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy crescent, 
Whichj if it waned and dwindled, earth mav thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
>"ow, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common woe, 
And call'd the « kingdoms of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant j uggles ! 

IY. 

The name of commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning glebe ; 
Yeuice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, 
For tvranny of late is cunning grown, 
Aud in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous offspring bv dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other land, 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
Yet rears her crest, unconquerd and sublime, 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
' Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 
! The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
! May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
I Bights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever 
; Better, though each man's life-blood were a river. 
j That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
1 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
! And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
I Three paces, and then faltering : better be 
: Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
! In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
! Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 

Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
j One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
I One freeman more. America to thee ! 



III. 
Glorv and empire ! once upon these towers 

With freedom — god-like triad ! how ye sate! 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 

When Yenice was an envy, might abate, 

But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate. 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The manv felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship : — even her crimes 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 

Some name arrests the passer-by. 
Thus, when thou view's t this page alone, 

Mav mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And when by thee that name is read, 
Perchance in some succeeding year. 

Reflect on me as on the dead, 

And think my heart is buried here. 

September i^th. 



Soq. 



520 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 

DEL 

SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA, 

EL CUAL DEGIA EN ARABIGO AST. 



Paseabase el Rey moro 
Por la ciudad de Grauada, 
Desde la puerta de Elvira 
Hasta la de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Albania ! 

Cartas le fueron venidas 
Que Alhama era ganada. 
Las cartas echo en el fuego, 

Y al mensagero matara. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Descavalga de una mula, 

Y ea un caballo cavaiga. 
Por el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se habia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alliama! 

Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
Al mismo punto mandaba 
Que se toquen las trompetas 
Con auafiles de plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Y que atambores de guerra 
Apriesa toquen alarma ; 
Por que lo oigan sus Moros, 
Los de la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Los Moros que el son oyeron, 
Que al sangriento Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Ungran escuadron formaban. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Alii hablo un Moro viejo ; 
De esta manera hablaba : — 
« i.Para que nos llamas, Rey? 
iPara que es esta llamada?» 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

« Habeis de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada : 
Que cristianos, con braveza, 
Ya nos han tornado Alhama. » 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Alii hablo un viejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crecida y cana : — 
« Bien se te emplea, buen Rey; 
Buen Rey, bien se te empleab.". 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

« Mataste los Bencerrages, 
Que eran la flor de Granada; 
Cogiste los tornadizos 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



A VERY MOURNFUL RALLAD 

ON THE 

SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, 

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following 
purport. 

[The effect of ihe original ballad (which existed both in Spanish 
and Arabic) was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the 
Moors, on pain of death, within Granada.] 

The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
« Wherefore call on us, oh king ? 
What may mean this gathering ?» 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

« Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold.» 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
« Good king, thou art justly served, 
Good king, this thou hast deserved. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

« By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



52 



« Por eso mereces, Rey, 
Una pena bien doblada ; 
Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, 

Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

« Si no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda; 

Y que se pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella.» 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera, 

Y co mo el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablaba. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

« Sabe un Rey que no hay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto.» — 
Eso dice el Pvey moro 
Relinchando de colera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vellida barba, 
El Rey te manda prender, 
Por la perdida de Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Porque a tf castigo sea, 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

« Caballeros, hombres buenos, 
Decid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



« And for this, oh king ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

«He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone." 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes 
The monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answer'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

« There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kiugs :» — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doom'd him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The king hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Albania's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

« Cavalier ! and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ! 
Let the Moorish monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe: 

Woe is me, Alhama! 



« De haberse Alhama perdido 


« But on my soul Alhama weighs, 


A mi me pesa en el alma ; 


And on my inmost spirit preys; 


Que si el Rey perdio su tierra 


And if the king his land hath lost, 


Otro rnucho mas perdiera. 


Yet others may have lost the most. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


« Perdieran hijos padres, 


« Sires have lost their children, wives 


Y casados las casadas : 


Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 


Las cosas que mas amara 


One what best his love might claim 


Perdio uno y otro fama. 


Hath lost, another wealth or fame. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


« Perdi una hija doncella 


« I lost a damsel in that hour, 


Que era la flor d'esta tierra; 


Of all the land the loveliest tlower ; 


Cien doblas daba por ella, 


Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 


No me las estimo en nada.» 


And think her ransom cheap that day.» 


Ay de mi, Alhama! 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


Diciendo asi al hacen Alfaqui, 


And as these things the old Moor said, 


Le cortaron la cabeza, 


They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 


Y la elevan al Alhambra, 


And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 


Asi como el Rey lo manda. 


T was carried, as the king decreed. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


' 


66 



! 
$22 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Hombres, niuos y mugeres, 


And men and infants therein weep 


Lloran tan graude perdida. 


Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 


Lloraban todas las damas 


Granada's ladies, all she rears 


Cuantas en Granada habia. 


Within her walls, burst into tears. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


Por las calles y ventanas 


And from the windows o'er the walls 


Mucho luto parecia ; 


The sable web of mourning falls! 


Llora el Rey como fembra, 


The king weeps as a woman o'er 


Qu' es mucbo lo que perdia. 


His loss, for it is much and sore. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


SONETTO DI \TTTORELLI. 


TRANSLATION FROM V1TTORELLI. 


PER MONACA. 


ON A NUN. 


Sonetto coraposto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco in- 


Sonnet composed in thenameof a father, whose daughter had recently 


nanzi una figlia appena maritafa ; edirettoal genitore della sacra 


died shortly alter her marriage ; and addressed to the father of her 


sposa. 


who had lately taken the veil. 


Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accortc 


Of two fair virgins, modest though admired, 


Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo ; 


Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires; 


11 ciel, che degne di piu nobil sorte, 


Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, 


L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedco. 


And gazing upon either, boili required. 


La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 


Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 


A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo : 


becomes extinguished, soon — too soon expires : 


La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 


But thine, within the closing grate retired, 


Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 


Eternal captive, to her God aspires: 


Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 


But thou at least from out the jealous door, 


Irrerneabil soglia, ove s' asconde 


Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 


La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 


Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 


Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda, 


/ to the marble, where my daughter lies, 


Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posa, 


Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, 


Batto e ribatto, ma nessun risponde. 


And knock, and knock, and knock — but none replies- 


STANZAS 


STANZAS 


WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULPH, 


Composed October nth, 1809, during the night, in a thunder-storm. 


NOVEMBER l4, 1 809. 


when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of raoun- . 
tains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. 


Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 


Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 


Full beams the moon on Actium's coast, 


Where Pindus' mountains rise, 


And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 


And angry clouds are pouring fast 


The ancient world was won and lost. 


The vengeance of the skies. 


And now upon the scene I look, 


Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 


The azure grave of many a Roman ; 


And lightnings, as they play, 


Where stern Ambition once forsook 


But show where rocks our path have crost, 


His wavering crown to follow woman, 


Or gild the torrent's spray. 


Florence ! whom I will love as well 


Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 


As ever yet was said or sung 


When lightning broke the gloom — 


(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), 


How welcome were its shade! — ah! no ! 


Whilst thou art fair and I am young; 


'T is but a Turkish tomb. 


Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, 


Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 


When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes: 


I hear a voice exclaim — 


Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 


My way-worn countryman, who calls 


Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. 


On distant England's name. 


Though Fate forbids such things to be, 


A shot is fired — by foe or friend? 


Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! 


Another — t is to tell 


I cannot lose a world for thee, 


The mountain peasants to descend, 


But would not lose thee for a world. 


And lead us where they dwell. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



523 



Oh! who in such a night -will dare 

To tempt the wilderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wandering through each broken path 

O'er brake and craggy brow : 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence ! where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
Thy bark hath long been gone: 

Oh may the storm that pours on me 
Bow down my head alone ! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc 

When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain : 
'T were hard if ought so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee, 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

Do thou amidst the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark blue sea; 

Then' think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one. 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine ; 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine. 



TO ***. 

Oh Lady ! when I left the shore, 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

1 hardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot on earth. 



Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting nature droops the head, 
Where only thou art seen to smile, 

I view my parting hour with dread. 
Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark-blue main, 
A few brief rolling seasons o'er, 

Perchance I view her cliffs again. 
But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 

Through scorching clime and varied sea, 
Though time restore me to my home, 

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee . 
On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
Whom but to see is to admire, 

And oh ! forgive the word — to love. 
Forgive the word in one who ne'er 

With such a word can more offend; 
And since thy heart I cannot share. 

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
And who so cold as look on thee, 

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? 
Nor be, what man should ever be, 

The friend of Beauty in distress ! 
Ah! who would think that form had past 

Through Dangers most destructive path, 
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, 

And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? 
Lady ! when I shall view the walls 

Where free Byzantium once arose ; 
And Stamboul's Oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 
Though mightiest in the lists of fame 

That glorious city still shall be, 
On me 't will hold a dearer claim, 

As spot of thy nativity. 
And though I bid thee now farewell, 

When I behold that wondrous scene, 
Since where thou art I may not dwell, 

T will soothe to be where thou hast been. 
September, 1809. 



WRITTEN AT ATHENS. 

JANUARY l6, l8lO. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 
Thus is it with life's fitful fever; 

We madly smile when we should groan- 
Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recals the woes of Nature's charter, 

And he that acts as wise men ought, 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though now of love aud thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with sorrow time can cope; 

Cut this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my hope 

My memory immortal grew. 



524 



BYRON'S WORKS 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS 
TO ABYDOS, 1 

MAY 9, l8lO. 

If in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loath, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 

For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
And think I 've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the doubtful story, 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam for love, as I for glory ; 

'T were hard to say who fared the best : 

Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you ! 

He lost his labour, I my jest, 

For he was drown'd, and I 've the ague. 



Z&iyj fxov, (rocs dyctfzG*. 2 

ATHENS, l8lO. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zwvj P-o\>, ads dyoc~G). 

1 On^the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) was 
lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the 
writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic 
— by-the-by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. 
The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing 
on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, 
was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English 
miles ; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the 
current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may in 
some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole dis- 
tance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, 
and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was ex- 
tremely cold from the melting of the mountain-snows. About three 
weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having ridden 
all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of 
an icy dullness, we found it necessary to postpone thecompletion till 
the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as 
just stated, entering a considerable way above the European, and 
landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam 
the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions its having been 
done by aiVeapoIitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered nei-her 
of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A 
number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a 
greater distance ; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as 
doubts had bean entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no travel- 
ler had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability. 

2 Zee mou, sas agnpo, or Zwvj {S-OV, ai:g dyXTTOi, a Romaic ex- 
pression of tenderness : if I translate it I shall affront the gentlemen, 
as it may seem that I supposed they could not ; and if I do not, I may 
affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the 
latter I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, « My 
life, I love you !n which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is 
as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two 
first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions 
were all Hellenized. 



By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each jEgean wind; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge. 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zwvj fxcv, odg dyecnti. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers' that tell 
What words can never speak so well : 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zwvj [Aov, adg dyxnti. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone ; 
Think of me, sweet, when alone. — 
Though I fly to Istambol, 2 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can 1 cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zwvj pov, edg dyxTCti- 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR- 
SONG, 

AsyTS, Ticafeg TWV E/Ar^wv, 

Written by Riga, who perished In theattemptto revolutionize Greece. 
The following translation is as literal as the author could make it in 
verse ; it is of the same measure as that of the original (pag. 97). 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour \s gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties, 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks, let us go 

In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 

In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me! 
And the seven-hill'd 3 city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou He? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally! 

1 In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should 
scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc., convey the senti- 
ments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury — an old 
woman. A cinder says, « I burn for thee;i a bunch of flowers tied 
with hair, u Take me and fly ;» but a pebble declares— what nothing 
else can. 

2 Constantinople. 

3 Constantinople. "TLTCzd^OfOg~» 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



52! 



Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible, the strong! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And, like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 

« Mrracvcu pes rb Tispi&SXt, 
ClpoctOTXT-/) Xav;c5Vj,» etc. 

The 60ng from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young 
girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is by 
verses in rotation, the whole number present joining in the chorus. 
I have heard it frequently at our u y^bpov< in the winter of 18 10-11. 
The air is plaintive and pretty. 

I enter thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue. 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung. 
As the branch, at the bidding of nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

Cut the loveliest gardert grows hateful 

When love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

Will deeply embitter the bowl; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances, 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope,which thou once bad'st me cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither' d reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PARTING. 

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left, 
Shall never part from mine, 



Till happier hours restore the gift 
Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest, 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write— to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh! what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or woe, 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what truth might well have said, 
By all, save one, perchance forgot, 

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? 
By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain; 
The past, the future fled to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
Could this have been — a word, a look, 

That softly said, « We part in peace, » 
Had taught my bosom how to brook, 

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
And didst thou not, since death for thee 

Prepared a light and pangless dart, 
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 

Who hold, and holds thee in his heart? 
Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 
Till all was past? But when no more 

'T was thine to reck of human woe, 
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 

Had flow'd as fast— as now they flow. 
Shall they not flow, when many a day 

In these, to me, deserted towers, 
Ere call'd but for a time away, 

Affection's mingling tears were ours? 
Ours too the glance none saw beside; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand; 
The kiss so guiltless and refined, 

That love each warmer wish forbore; 
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 

Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 

When prone, unlike thee, to repine; 
The song celestial from thy voice, 

But sweet to me from none but thine; 



526 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


The pledge we wore— I wear it still, 


Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; 


But where is thine ? — ah, where art thou ? 


Man was not form'd to live alone : 


Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 


I '11 be that light unmeaning thing 


But never bent beneath till now ! 


That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 


Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 


It was not thus in days more dear; 


The cup of woe for me to drain. 


It never would have been, but thou 


If rest alone be in the tomb, 


Hast fled, and left me lonely here : 


I would not wish thee here again ; 


Thou 'rt nothing — all are nothing now. 


But if in worlds more blest than this 




Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 


In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 


Impart some portion of thy bliss, 


The smile that sorrow fain would wear 


To wean me from mine anguish here. 


But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 


Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 


Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 


To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 


Though gay companions o'er the bowl 


On earth thy love was such to me, 


Dispel awhile the sense of ill; 


It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 


Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 




The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 




On many a lone and lovely night 


STANZAS. 


It soothed to gaze upon the sky, 


Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 


For then I deem'd the heavenly light 


Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 


Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; 


Or I must flee from hence , for, oh ! 


And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 


I dare not trust those sounds again. 


When sailing o'er the iEgean wave, 


To me they speak of brighter days— 


« Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — » 


But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 


Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! 


I must not think, I may not gaze 
On what I am, on what I was. 




When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 




And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 


The voice that made those sounds more sweet 


« 'T is comfort still, » I faintly said, 


Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 


« That Thyrza cannot know my pains. » 


And now their softest notes repeat 


Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 


A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead? 


A boon 't is idle then to give, 


Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 


Relenting Nature vainly gave 


Beloved dust! since dust thou art; 


My life when Thyrza ceased to live ! 


And all that once was harmony 




Is worse than discord to my heart ! 


My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 


T is silent all ! — but on my ear 
The well-remember'd echoes thrill; 


When love and life alike were new, 


How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 


I hear a voice I would not hear, 


How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 


A voice that now might well be still : 


The heart that gave itself with thee 


Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake, 


Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 


Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 


Though cold as even the dead can be, 


Till consciousness will vainly wake 


It feels, it sickens with the chill. 


To listen, though the dream be flown. 






Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token ! 


Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, 


Though painful, welcome to my breast! 


Thou art but now a lovely dream — 


Still, still preserve that love unbroken, 


A star that trembled o'er the deep, 


Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest! 


Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 


Time tempers love, but not removes, 


But he who through life's dreary way 


More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 


Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 


Oh ! what are thousand living loves 


Will long lament the vanish'd ray 


To that which cannot quit the dead? 


That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 








EUTHANASIA. 


TO THYRZA. 






When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 


One struggle more, and I am free 


The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 


From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 


Oblivion! may thy languid wing 


One last long sigh to love and thee, 


Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 


Then back to busy life again. 




It suits me well to mingle now 


No baud of friends or heirs be there, 


With things that never pleased before : 


To weep or wish the coming blow : 


Though every joy is fled below, 


No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 


What future grief can touch me more ? 


To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


02y 


But silent let me sink to earth, 


The better days of life were ours; 




With no officious mourners near: 


The worst can be but mine ; 




I would not mar one hour of mirth, 


The sun that cheers, the storm that lours, 




Nor startle friendship with a fear. 


Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away 




Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 




Could nobly check its useless sighs, 




Might then exert its latest power 




In her who lives and him who dies. 


I might have watch' d through long decay. 




'T were sweet, my Psyche, to the last 


The flower in ripen'd blcom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 




Thy features still serene to see : 




Forgetful of its struggles past, 

Even Pain itself should smile on thee. 






The leaves must drop away: 




But vain the wish — for Beauty still 


And yet it were a greater grief 




Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; 


To watch it withering leaf by leaf, 




And woman's tears, produced at will, 


Than see it pluck'd to-day; 




Deceive in life, unman in death. 


Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 




Then lonely be my latest hour, 




Without regret, without a groan ! 


I know not if I could have borne 




For thousands death hath ceased to lower, 


To see thy beauties fade ; 




And pain been transient or unknown. 


The night that follow'd such a morn 




« Ay, but to die, and go,» alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe ! 


Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last; 

Extinguish'd, not decay d ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 




Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 


Shine brightest as they fall from high. 




Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 






And know, whatever thou hast been, 


As once I wept, if I could weep, 




'T is something better — not to be. 


My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 




^ 


One vigil o'er thy bed; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 




STANZAS. 


To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
Uphold thy drooping head; 




« Heu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui memioisse'.- 


And show that love, however vain, 




And thou art dead, as young and fair 


Nor thou nor I can feel again. 




As aught of mortal birth; 


Yet how much less it were to gain, 
Though thou hast left me free, 




And form so soft, and charms so rare, 
Too soon return'd to earth! 






The loveliest things that still remain, 
Than thus remember thee ! 




Though Earth received them in her bed. 




And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 


The all of thine that cannot die, 




In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 


Through dark and dread eternity, 
Returns agaiu to me, 




A moment on that grave to look. 


And more thy buried love endears 




I will not ask where thou liest low, 


Than aught, except its living years. 




Nor g«aze upon the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 










So I behold them not : 






It is enough for me to prove 


STANZAS. 




That what I loved, and long must love, 
Like common earth can rot ; 


If sometimes in the haunts of men 




To me there needs no stone to tell, 


Thine image from my breast may fade, 




'T is nothing that I loved so well. 


The lonely hour presents again 




The semblance of thy gentle shade : 




Yet did I love thee to the last 


And now that sad and silent hour 




As fervently as thou, 


Thus much of thee can still restore, 




Who didst not change through all the past. 


And sorrow unobserved may pour 




And canst not alter now. 


The plaint she dare not speak before. 




The love where death has set his seal, 






Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 


Oh ! pardon that in crowds awhile, 




Nor falsehood disavow-. 


1 waste one thought 1 owe to thee, 




And what were worse, thou canst not see, 


And, self-coudemn'd, appear to smile, 




Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 


Unfaithful to thy memory! 





5a8 



BYRON'S WORKS- 



Nor deem that memory less dear, 
That then I seem not to repine : 

I would not fools should overhear 
One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquaff d, 

It is not drain' d to banish care — 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I 'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drown'd a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou banish'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honour thine abandon'd urn? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

T is meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him, but thou. 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessiag never meant for me; 
Thou wert too like a dream of heaven, 

For earthly love to merit thee. 

March i^th, 



ON 



A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROKEN. 



Ill-fated heart! and can it be 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? 
Have years of care for thine and thee 

Alike been all employ'd in vain? 

Yet precious seems each shatter' d part, 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

[ This poem and the following were written some years ago. ] 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name, 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 

What trifles oft the heart recal; 
And those who once have loved the most 

Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays, 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 



If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow ; 

And who would in a breast confide 
Where stormy passions ever glow ? 

It boots not that, together bred, 
Our childish days were days of joy; 

My spring of life has quickly fled; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to youth, 

Slaves to the specious world's controul, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth : 

That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought, ere spoke, is unconfin'd, 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in man's maturer years, 
When man himself is but a tool; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
And all must love or hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn, at length, our faults to blend ; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man: 
Can we then scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverse the general plan, 
Nor be what all in turn must be? 

No ; for myself, so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath been, 

Man and the world I so much hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
The welcome vices kindly greet), 

Even now thou 'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad, 

To join the vain and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
Still simpering on with eager haste, 

As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5 29 



But say, -what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An igms-fatuus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
Will deign to own a kindred care? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share ? 

In time forbear; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along : 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



TO ****** 

Well! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do, 

Thy husband 's blest— and 't will impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not! 

When late T saw thy favourite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I '11 not repine; 
But near thee I can never stay ; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
My heart in all, save hope, the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look ; 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face, 

Yet meet with no confusion there : 

One only feeling couldst thou trace — 
The sullen calmness of despair. 

Away! away! my eariy dream 

Remembrance never must awake : 

Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
My foolish heart, be still, or break. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

In moments to delight devoted, 

« My life !» with tenderest tone, you cry: 
Dear words on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 



To death even hours like these must roll 
Ah! then repeat those accents never ; 

Or change « my life !» into « my soul !» 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye: 
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 

My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 

And droop within their silent cell. 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, l8l2. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride : 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies with lightnings awful as their own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favour which the former kuew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and yon ? 

Yes — it shall be : the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been : 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, Bow well .' 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head ! 
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 

67 



53o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, 
Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs; 
While thus remembrance borrows Banquo's glass, 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both players and plays 

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 

The boundless power to cherish or reject; 

If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 

And made us blush that you forbore to blame; 

If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 

All past reproach may present scenes refute, 

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 

Oh ! since your fiat stamps the drama's laws, 

Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause : 

So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers. 

And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 

The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 

Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 

Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own, 

The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 

Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 

Britons our judges, nature for our guide, 

Still may we please — long, long may you preside! 



TO TIME. 

Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 

The varying hours must flag or fly, 
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 

But drag or drive us on to die — 
11 nil thou! who on my birth bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thee known ; 
Yet better I sustain thy load, 

For now I bear the weight alone. 
I would not one fond heart should share 

The bitter moments thou hast given; 
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare, 

All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 
I nothing owe but years to thee, 

A debt already paid in pain. 
Yet e'en that pain was some relief ; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 
In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 

Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 
Thy cloud could overcast the light, 

But could not add a night to woe ; 
For then, however drear and dark, 

My soul was suited to thy sky; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 

To prove thee — not Eternity. 



That beam hath sunk; and now thou art 

A blank — a thing to count and curse 
Through each dull tedious trifling part, 

Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed, 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed 
And I can smile to think how weak 

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 

Must fall upon — a nameless stone ! 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew : 
Alas ! I lind them poison'd too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net, 
Which Love around your haunts hath set; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire , 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
Can neither feel nor pity pain ; 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip, and alter' d eye? 

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 

.And art thou changed, and canst thou hate? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
What wretch with me would barter woe? 
My bird! relent: one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my maddening brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ! 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang., exults — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me the poison; fear not thou! 
Thou canst not murder more than now : 
I've lived to curse my natal day, 
And love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Alas ! too late I dearly know, 
That joy is harbinger of woe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A SONG. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
To those thyself so fondly sought ; 

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest. 

Too well thou lov'st — too soou thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit; 
But she who not a thought disguises,' 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
When she can change who loved so truly, 
It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

That cheated us in slumber only, 

To leave the waking soul more lonely, 

What must they feel whom no false vision, 
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 
As if a dream alone had charm'd 1 

Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ..ORIGIN 
OF LOVE?»» 

The « Origin of Love !» — Ah why 

That cruel question ask of me, 
When thou mayst read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know 
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 

He '11 linger long in silent woe; 
But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, etc. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be blest : 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, represt. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 



Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 

I bless thy purer soul even now, 
Even now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; 

When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore, 

From this our gaudy world be past! 

And, that too bitter moment o'er, 
Oh! may such trial be thy last! 

This heart, alas! perverted long, 

Itself destroy'd might there destroy, 

To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego, 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure, 

From what even here hath past, may guess. 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
Since not by virtue shed in vain, 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet : 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 

And almost deern the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed lo thine; 

It felt not half so much to part, 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



LINES 

INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 

In me behold the only skull 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaff d, like thee ; 

I died; let earth my bones resign : 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of gods, than reptiles' food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 



53a 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Quaff -while thou canst— another race, 
When thou and thine like me are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 

lledeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 

Newstead Abbey, 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, RART 

There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry, 
And triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is sorrow's purest sigh 

O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: 
In vain their bones unburied lie — 

All earth becomes their monument ! 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue ; , 

The present hours, the future age, 
For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; 

While deep remembrance pours to worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not share their glorious lot? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; 

And early valour, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thee 

In woe, that glory cannot quell ; 
And shuddering hear of victory, 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

While grief's full heart is fed by fame. 

Alas ! for them, though not for thee, 
They cannot chuse but weep the more; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be 

Who ne'er save cause to mourn before. 



TO A LADY WEEPING. 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; 

Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep — for thy tears are virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles; 

And be each drop, in future years, 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 

March, 1812. 



FROM THE TURKISH. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 

The lute I added sweet in sound, 
The heart that offer'd both was true, 

And ill deserved the fate it found. 
These gifts were charm 'd by secret spell 

Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
And they have done their duty well, 

Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou couldst think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
The chain is broke, the music mute : 

'T is past — to them and thee adieu- 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



SONNET. 

TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features— caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 
Seems sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair- 
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That— but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 
With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 
Such seem'st thou— but how much more excellent ! 
With nought remorse can claim— nor virtue scorn. 

SONNET. 

TO GENEVRA. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, 
And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : — 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes— but oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



INSCRIPTION 

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 

When some proud son of man returns to earth. 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



533 



The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of -woe, 

And storied urns record who rests below; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been: 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise — 

I never knew but one, and here he lies. 

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 3o, 1808. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
"f were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word— Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel; 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell! 



Bright be the place of thy soul! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine, 

As thy soul shall immortally be; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine, 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the blest? 



When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well; — 
Long, long shall I rue thee. 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



1808. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

O Lacrymarum ferns, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
Felix '. in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. 

GRAY'S Poemala. 

There's not a jov the world can give like that it takes 

away, 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 

dull decay; 
T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 

which fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 

happiness, 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 

again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 

comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 

1 These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power, Strand, who 
has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson, 



534 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the 

ice appears. 

Though -wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast, 

Through midnight hours that yield no more their for- 
mer hope of rest; 

T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey 
beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, 
Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a va- 

nish'd scene : 
As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet — all brackish 

though they be, — 
So, midst the wither' d waste of life, those tears would 

flow to me. 

i8i5. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charm'd ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of summer's ocean. 



FARE THEE WELL ! 



Alas', they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above : 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroih with one we love, 

Doth work like madness in the brain : 



But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from paining — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 

Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been. 

COLEBIBGE'S ChristabeL 



Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well ■' 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
Would that breast were bared before thee 

Where thy head so oft hath lain, 



While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 

Every inmost thought could show! 
Then thou wouldst at last discover 

'T was not well to spurn it so. 
Though the world for this commend thee — 

Though it smile upon the blow, 
Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another's woe. 
Though my many faults defaced me, 

Gould no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound? 
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not, 
Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away: 
Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
And the undying thought which paineth 

Is — that we no more may meet. 
These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead; 
Doth shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather, 

When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say « Father !» 

Though his care she must forego? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 

When her lip to thine is prest, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 

Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
Should her lineaments resemble 

Those thou never more mayst see, 
Then thy heart will softly tremble 

With a pulse yet true to me. 
All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

Wither — yet with thee they go. 
Every feeling hath been shaken; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now. 
But 't is done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vainer still; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Force their way without the will. — 
Fare thee well! — thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted — 
More than this I scarce can die. 



TO ***. 

When all around grew drear and dark, 
And reason half withheld her ray, 

And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way; 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart, 

When, dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
The weak despair — the cold depart; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



535 



When fortune, changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 

Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 

Oh! hlest he thine unhroken light! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood hetween me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 

There's more in oue soft word of thine, 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert — and sti|l wouldst be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the most of all. 

Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken — thine will never break; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move; 
Thy soul, though soft, will uever shake. 

And these, when all was lost beside, 

Were found, and still are fixed, in thee — 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert — even to me. 



ODE. 

[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; 
There 't was shed, but is not sunk- 
Rising from each gory trunk, 
Like the water-spout from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion : 
It soars and mingles in the air, 
With that of lost Labedoyere — 
With that of him whose honour'd grave 
Contains the « bravest of the brave. » 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose; 
When 't is full 't will burst asunder — 
Never yet was heard such thunder 
As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
Never yet was seen such lightning, 
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! 
Like the Wormwood star foretold 
By the sainted seer of old, 



Showering down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood. ' 

The chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow men — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where glory smiled on freedom's son — 

W 7 ho, of all the despots banded, 
With tliat youthful chief competed? 
Who could boast o'er France defeated, 

Till lone tyranny commanded? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The hero sunk into the king? 
Then he fell ; — so perish all, 
Who would men by man enthral ! 

And thou too of the snow-white plume ! 
W r hose realm refused thee even a tomb; 2 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name; 
Such as he of Naples wears, 
W r ho thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thy war-liorse through the ranks, 

Like a stream which burst its banks, 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee. 
W T as that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once — as the moon sways o'er the tide, 
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 
And as it onward rolling rose, 
So moved his heart upon our foes. 
There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There, with thunder-clouds to fan her, 

Who could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast?) 
W T hile the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain: 
There be sure was Murat charging! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 



1 See Rev. chap, viii, verse 7, etc. u The first angel sounded, and 
there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, » etc. 

Verse 8. « And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great 
mountain burning with tire was cast into the sea ; and the third part 
of the sea became blood, » etc. 

Verse 10. u And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great 
star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp ; and it fell upon a third 
part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." 

Verse 11. « And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and 
the third part of the waters became wormwood ; and many men died 
of the waters, because they were made bitter." 

2 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and 
burnt. 






536 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice. 

With her heart in her voice; 

But, her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The <' moral lessonn dearly bought ; 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven, 

With their breath, and from their birth, 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand; 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

But the heart and the mind, 

And the voice of mankind, 

Shall arise in communion — 

And who shall resist that proud union ? 

The time is past when swords subdued — 

Man may die — the soul's renew'd: 

Even in this low" world of care 

Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 

Millions breathe but to inherit 

Her for ever bounding spirit: 

When once more her hosts assemble, 

Tyrants shall believe and tremble. 

Smile they at this idle threat? 

Crimson tears will follow yet. 



[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

"All wept, but particularly Savary. and a Polish officer who had been 
exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's 
knees; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to ac- 
company him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not 
be admitted." 

Must thou go, my glorious chief, 

Sever'd from thy faithful few? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er that long adieu? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal — 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel, 

With a soldier's faith, for thee? 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now : 
Many could a world control: 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death, and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard 

Blessing him they served so well. l 

i "At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by 
a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the other, and, throwing it up in 
the air, exclaimed to his comrades,' Vive l'Empereurjusqu'a la mort.' 
There were many other instances of the like; this you may, however, 
depend on as true." 

A private Letter from Brussels. 



Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free. 

Oh! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine? 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore. 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave, 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF HONOUR. 

[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adored deceit! 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 

Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 

Why rise in heaven to set on earth? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze! 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here; 
And thy light broke on human eyes 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava rolld thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empires with its flood; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
And the shorn sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three bright colours, T each divine, 

And fit for that celestial sign; 

For freedom's hand had blended them 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; 
One, the blue depth of seraphs' eyes; 
One, the pure spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light; 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

' The tri-colour. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



53 7 



Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou rainbow of the free! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

Farewell to the land where the gloom of my glory 

Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name : 

She abandons me now,— but the page of her story, 

The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 

I have warr'd with a world, which vanquish'd me only 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; 

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 

lonely, 
The last single captive to millions in war ! 

Farewell to thee, France !— when thy diadem cro wn'd me, 

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 

But my weakness decrees I should leave asl found thee, 

Decay d in thy glory and sunk in thy worth. 

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won ! 

Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on Victory's sun! 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then : 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; 
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again. 
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice : 
There are links which must break in the chain that has 

bound us — 
Then turn thee, and call on the chief of thy choice 



SONNET. 



Rousseau— Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stael— 
Leman! 1 these names are worthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these ; wert thou no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recal: 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all; 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous; but by thee 

How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
Which of the heirs of immortality 

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real? 

1 Geneva, Ferncy, Coppet, Lausanne. 



WRITTEN ON A RLANR LEAF OF « THE 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY... 

Absent or present, still to thee, 

My friend, what magic spells belong ! 
As all can tell, who share, like me, 

In turn, thy converse and thy song. 
But when the dreaded hour shall come, 

By friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 
And « Memory » o'er her Druid's tomb 

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
How fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 
And blend, -while ages roll away, 

ffername immortally with tiiinel 

April 19, 181?.. 

STANZAS TO ***. 

Though the day of my destiny 's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find : 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though 1 feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me: 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me : 

'T is of thee that I think — not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd thou never couldst shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 't was not to defame me, 

Nor mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Xor the war of the many with one ; 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'T was folly not sooner to shun. 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd, 

Thus much I at least may recal, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish' d 

Deserved to be dearest of all. 

6S 



538 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In the desert a fountain is springing, 
In the wide waste there still is a tree, 

And a hird in the solitude singing, 
Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 



DARKNESS. 
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air. 
Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day; 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation; and all hearts 
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
And they did live by watch-fires — and the thrones, 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell, 
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, 
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 
To look once more into each other's face : 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanos and their mountain-torch. 
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd. 
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them : some lay down 
And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
The pall of a past world ; and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd. The wild birds 

shriek'd, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And war, which for a moment was no more, 
Did glut himself again. A meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart, 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails. Men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd. 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which ansv/er'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies ; they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 



Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd and died — 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written fiend. The world was void, 

The populous and the powerful was a lump, 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 

A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, 

And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; 

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 

And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd, 

They slept on the abyss without a surge. 

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, 

The moon their mistress had expired before; 

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 

And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need 

Of aid from them — she was the universe. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE, 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDEREO. 

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 

With name no clearer than the names unknown, 

Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The gardener of that ground, why it might be 

That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 

Through the thick deaths of half a century; 

And thus he answer'd — « Well, I do not know 

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; 

He died before my day of sextonship, 

And [ had not the digging of this grave. » 

And is this all? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of immortality'? and crave 

I know not what of honour and of light 

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? 

So soon and so successless? As I said, 

The architect of all on which we tread, 

For earth is but a tombstone, did essay 

To extricate remembrance from the clay, 

Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, 

Were it not that all life must end in one, 

Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 't were the twilight of a former sun, 

Thus spoke he, — «I believe the man of whom 

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 

Was a most famous writer in his day, 

And therefore travellers step from out their way 

To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 

Your honour pleases .» Then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 

Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were 

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 

So much but inconveniently. Ye smile, 

I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 53g 


Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 


And a firm will, and a deep sense, 


You are the fools, not I— for I did dwell 


Which even in torture can descry 


With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 


Its own concentred recompense, 


On that old sexton's natural homily, 


Triumphant where it dares defy, 


In which there was ohscurity and fame, 


And making death a victory. 


The glory and the nothing of a name. 






ODE. 




PROMETHEUS. 






Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! 


Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 


Oh shame to thy children and thee! 


The sufferings of mortality, 


Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 


Seen in their sad reality, 


How wretched thy portion shall be ! 


Were not as things that gods despise ; 


Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 


What was thy pity's recompense ! 


A mockery that never shall die : 


A silent suffering, and intense; 


The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, 


The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 


Shall burden the winds of thy sky; 


All that the proud can feel of pain, 


And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd 


The agony they do not show, 


The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world ! 


The suffocating sense of woe, 




Which speaks but in its loneliness, 


Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, 


And then is jealous lest the sky 


The spirit that breathed in thy dead, 


Should have a listener, nor will sigh 


When gallantry's star was the beacon before, 


Until its voice is echoless. 


And honour the passion that led? 




Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep, 


Titan ! to thee the strife was given 


They groan from the place of their rest, 


Between the suffering and the will, 


And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep, 


Which torture where they cannot kill ; 


To see the foul stain on thy breast ; 


And the inexorable heaven, 


For where is the glory they left thee in trust ? 


And the deaf tyranny of fate, 


'T is scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dust ! 


The ruling principle of hate, 




Which for its pleasure doth create 


Go look through the kingdoms of earth, 


The things it may annihilate, 


From Indus all round to the pole, 


Refused thee even the boon to die : 


And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, 


The wretched gift eternity 


Shall brighten the sius of the soul. 


Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 


But thou art alone in thy shame, 


All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 


The world cannot liken thee there ; 


Was but the menace which flung back 


Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name 


On him the torments of thy rack ; 


Beyond the low reach of compare: 


The fate thou didst so well foresee, 


Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time 


But would not to appease him tell : 


A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime ! 


And in thy silence was his sentence, 




And in his soul a vain repentance, 


While conquest illumined his sword, 


And evil dread, so ill dissembled 


While yet in his prowess he stood, 


That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 


Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thy lord, 




And welcomed the torrent of blood: 


Thy godlike crime was to be kind, 


Though tyranny sat on his crown, 


To render with thy precepts less 


And wither'd the nations afar, 


The sum of human wretchedness, 


Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown, 


And strengthen man with his own mind. 


Till fortune deserted his car; 


But baffled as thou wert from high, 


Then back from the chieftain thou slunkest away, 


Still in thy patient energy, 


The foremost to insult, the first to betray ! 


In the endurance, and repulse 




Of thine impenetrable spirit, 


Forgot were the feats he had done, 


Which earth and heaven could not convulse, 


The toils he had borne in thy cause ; 


A mighty lesson we inherit. 


Thou turned'st to worship a new rising sun, 


Thou art a symbol and a sign 


And waft other songs of applause. 


To mortals of their fate and force ; 


But the storm was beginning to lower, 


Like thee, man is in part divine, 


Adversity clouded his beam ; 


A troubled stream from a pure source: 


And honour and faith were the brag of an hour, 


And man in portions can foresee 


And loyalty's self but a dream : — ■ 


His own funereal destiny ; 


To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored, 


His wretchedness, and his resistance, 


And the first that had scof f d were the first that adored. 


And his sad unallied existence : 




To which his spirit may oppose 


What tumult thus burthens the air? 


Itself — an equal to all woes, 


What throng thus encircles his throne? 

1 



5/ 4 o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



'T is the shout of delight, 't is the millions that swear 

His sceptre shall rule them alone. 
Reverses shall brighten their zeal, 

Misfortune shall hallow his name, 
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel 

How quenchless the spirit and flame 
That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are 

on fire, 
For the hero they love, and the chief they admire! 

Their hero has rush'd to the field ; 

His laurels are cover'd with shade — 
But where is the spirit that never should yield, 

The loyalty never to fade ? 
In a moment desertion and guile 

Abandon'd him up to the foe ; 
The dastards that flourish'd and grew in his smile 

Forsook and renounced him in woe ; 
And the millions that swore they would perish to save, 
Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave ! 

The savage all wild in his glen 
Is nobler and better than thou; 
Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, 
Such perfidy blackens thy brow! 
If thou wert the place of my birth, 
At once from thy arms would I sever; 
I 'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth, 

And quit thee for ever and ever ; 
And thinking of thee in my long after years, 
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears. 

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! 
Oh, shame to thy children and thee ! 
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 
How wretched thy portion shall be ! 
Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 
A mockery that never shall die ; 
The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, 

Shall burthen the winds of thy sky ; 
And proud o'er thv ruin for ever be hurl'd 
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world! 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lines composed on the occasion of H. R. H. the P e R-g— t being 

seen standing betwixt the coffins of Henry VIII and Charles I, in 
the royal vault at Windsor. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
By headless Charles, seeheartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing, 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
In him the double tyrant starts to life. 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, 
Each royal vampyre wakes to life again. 
Ah ! what can tombs av^ail — since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a G...ge. 

i8i3. 



A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE. 

Honest — honest Iago ! 

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee '. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 



Next — for some gracious service unexprest, 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Baised from the toilet to the table, where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair : 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, 

The genial confidante, and general spy ; 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess 1 

An only infant's earliest governess! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

What she had made the pupil of her art, 

None know — but that high soul secured the heart, 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 
Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could not blind, 
Deceit infect not, near contagion soil, 
Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil, 
Nor master d science tempt her to look down 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown, 
Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain, 
Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain, 
Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow, 
Nor virtue teach austerity — till now. 
Serenely purest of her sex that live. 
But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive ; 
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
She deems that all could be like her below : 
Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friend — 
For virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme — now laid aside too long, 
The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more, 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her quake, 
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake ; 
If early habits — those false links which bind, 
At times, the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
Have given her power too depply to instil 
The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
If like a snake she steal within your walls, 
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ! 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints, 
With all the kind mendacity of hints, 
While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles, 
A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming ; 
A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal, 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel ; 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown, 
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. 
Mark how the channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



54i 



Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale 
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colours in that soul or face). 
Look on her features! and behold her mind, 
As in the mirror of itself defined: 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
This is no trait which might not be enlarged; 
Yet true to « Nature's journeymen, » who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade,— 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 
And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind, 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
Black as thy will for others would create : 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, ' 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, 
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread! 
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer, 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! 
Down to the dust!— and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear, 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn, should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers, 
And festering in the infamy of years. 

March 3o, 1816. 

CARMINA BYRONIS IN C. ELGIN. 

Aspice, quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores, 
Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide. 

Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis aedi, 
Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. 

Pygmalion statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur ; 
In statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest. 



LINES TO MR MOORE. 

[The following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron to his 
friend Mr. Moore, on the latter's last Yisit to Italy.] 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee. 

Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky 's above me, 
Here 's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 



Wer't the last drop in the well, 
And I gasping on the brink, 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

In that water, as this wine, 
The libation I would pour 

Should be — Peace to thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore! 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH 
YEAR... 

January 22, 1824, Missolonghi. 
'T is time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move; 
Yet though I cannot be beloved, 

Still let me love. 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 

A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 

But wear the chain. 

But 't is not thus, and 't is not here, 

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor ?tou> 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 

Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece, — she is awake!) 

Awake my, spirit! — think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 

And then strike home! 

Tread all reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood! Unto thee, 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why livel 

The land of honourable death 
Is here — up to the field, and give 

Away thy breath! 

Seek out — less often sought than found— 

A soldier's grave — for thee the best; 
Then look around, and chuse thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 



'42 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SLettev 



-*•*** **•*•**■-* 



TO " , ON 

THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 

ON THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE. 



I '11 play at Bowls with the sun and moon. 

Old Song. 
My mither 's auld, sir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in 
speaking to my Leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit (as I 
ken naebody likes it if they could help themsells). 

Tales of mt Landlord, Old Murtalily, vol. ii 



LETTER. 



Ravenna, February jth, 1821. 

DEAR SIR, 

In the different pamphlets which you have had the good- 
ness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' controversy, I 
perceive that my name is occasionally introduced by 
both parties. Mr Bowles refers more than once to -what 
he is pleased to consider «a remarkable circumstance, » 
not only in his letter to Mr Campbell, but in his reply 
to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also, and Mr Gilchrist, 
have conferred on me the dangerous honour of a quo- 
tation; and Mr Bowles indirectly makes a kind of appeal 
to me personally, by saying, « Lord Byron, if he re- 
members the circumstance, will witness* — (ivitness in 
italic, an ominous character for a testimony at pre- 
sent). 

I shall not avail myself of a « non mi ricordo," even 
after so long a residence in Italy ; — I do « remember 
the circumstances — and have no reluctance to relate it 
(since called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance 
of time and the impression of intervening events will 
permit me. In the year 1812, more than three years 
after the publication of « English Bards aud Scotch 
Reviewers," I had the honour of meeting Mr Bowles in 
the house of our venerable host of « Human Life, etc.» 
the last Argonaut of classic English poetry, and the 
Nestor of our inferior race of living poets. Mr Bowles 
calls this « soon afterw the publication; but to me three 
years appear a considerable segment of the immortality 
of a modern poem. I recollect nothing of « the rest of 
the company going into another room» — nor, though I 
well remember the topography of our host's elegant and 
classically-furnished mansion, could I swear to the very 
room where the conversation occurred, though the 
« taking down the poem» seems to fix it in the library. 
Had it been « taken up,» it would probably have been 
in the drawing-room. I presume also that the « re- 
markable circumstance" took place after dinner, as I 
conceive that neither Mr Bowles's politeness nor appetite 
would have allowed him to detain « the rest of the com- 
pany)) standing round their chairs in the « other room» 
while we were discussing «the woods of Madeira," in- 
stead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr Bowles's « good- 
humour" I have a full and not ungrateful recollection; 
as also of his gentlemanly manners and agreeable con- 
versation. I speak of the whole, and not of particulars; 
for whether he did or did not use the precise words 
printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor could he 



with accuracy. Of « the tone of seriousness" I certainly 
recollect nothing : on the contrary, I thought Mr Bowles 
rather disposed to treat the subject lightly; for he said 
(I have no objection to be contradicted if incorrect) 
that some of his good-natured friends had come to him 
and exclaimed, «Eh! Bowles! how came you to make 
the "Woods of Madeira," etc., etc., and that he had been 
at some pains and pulling down of the poem to convince 
them that he had never made « the Woods" do any 
thing of the kind. He was right, and J was wrong, 
and have been wrong still up to this acknowledgment ; 
for I ought to have looked twice before I wrote that 
which involved an inaccuracy capable of giving pain. 
The fact was, that although I had certainly before read 
« the Spirit of Discovery," I took the quotation from 
the review. But the mistake was mine, aud not the 
review's, which quoted the passage correctly enough, I 
believe. I blundered — God knows how— into attribut- 
ing the tremors of the lovers to the «Woods of Madeira," 
by which they were surrounded. And I hereby do fully 
and freely declare and asseverate, that the Woods did 
not tremble to a kiss, and that the lovers did. I quote 
from memory — 

A kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, etc., etc. 

They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power, etc. 

And if I had been aware that this declaration would 
have been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr 
Bowles, I should not have waited nine years to make it, 
notwithstanding that « English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers" had been suppressed some time previously to 
my meeting him at Mr Rogers's. Our worthy host 
might indeed have told him as much, as it was at his 
representation that I suppressed it. A new edition of 
that lampoon was preparing for the press, when Mr 
Rogers represented to me, that «I was now acquainted 
with many of the persons mentioned in it, and with 
some on terms of intimacy;" and that he knew «one 
family in particular to whom its suppression would 
give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment; it was 
cancelled instantly; and it is no fault of mine that it 
has ever been republished. When I left England, in 
April, 1816, with no very violent intentions of troubling 
that country again, and amidst scenes of various kinds 
to distract my attention — almost my last act, I believe, 
was to sign a power of attorney, to yourself, to prevent 
or suppress any attempts (of which several had beeu 
made in Ireland) at a re-publication. It is proper that I 
should state, that the persons with whom I was subse- 
quently acquainted, whose names had occurred in that 



LETTISH ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 



543 



publication, were made my acquaintances at their own 
desire, or through the unsought intervention of others: 
I never, to the best of my knowledge, sought a personal 
introduction to any. Some of them to this day I know 
only by correspondence ; and with one of those it Avas 
begun by myself, in consequence, however, of a polite 
verbal communication from a third person. 

I have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances, 
because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitter 
reproach to me, to have endeavoured to suppress that 
satire. I never shrunk, as those who know me know, 
from any personal consequences which could be attached 
to its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I 
possessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the 
sole master. The circumstances which occasioned the 
suppression I have now stated; of the motives, each 
must judge according to his candour or malignity. 
Mr Bowles does me the honour to talk of « noble mind," 
and "generous magnanimity ;» and all this because 
« the circumstance would have been explained had not 
the book been suppressed." I see no « nobility of 
mind» in an act of simple justice; and I hate the word 
« magnanimity,* because I have sometimes seen it ap- 
plied to the grossest of impostors by the greatest of 
fools; but I would have « explained the circumstance," 
notwithstanding « the suppression of the book,» if Mr 
Bowles had expressed any desire that I should. As the 
« gallant Galbraith" says to « Bailie Jarvie,» « Well, the 
devil take the mistake and all that occasioned it.» I 
have had as great and greater mistakes made about me 
personally and poetically, once a month for these last 
ten years, and never cared very much about correcting 
one or the other, at least after the first eight-and-forty 
hours had gone over them. 

I must now, however, say a word or two about Pope, 
of whom you have my opinion more at large in the un- 
published letter on or to (for I forget which) the editor of 
« Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine ;» and here I doubt 
that Mr Bowles will not approve of my sentiments. 

Although I regret having published « English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," the part which I regret the least 
is that which regards Mr Bowles with reference to Pope. 
Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 180S, 
Mr Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr Bowles's edition of 
his works. As I had completed my outline, and felt 
lazy, I requested that he would do so. He did it. His 
fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition 
of « English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" and are quite 
as severe and much more poetical than my own in the 
second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to 
it, I omitted Mr Hobhouse's lines, and replaced them 
with my own, by which the work gained less than Mr 
Bowles. I have stated this in the preface to the second 
edition. It is many years since I have read that poem ; 
but the Quarterly Review, Mr Octavius Gilchrist, and 
Mr Bowles himself, have been so obliging as to refresh 
my memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to 
say, that in reading over those lines, I repent of their 
having so far fallen short of what I meant to express 
upon the subject of Bowles's edition of Pope's Works. 
Mr Bowles says that « Lord Byron knows he does not 
deserve this character." I know no such thing. I have 
met Mr Bowles occasionally, in the best society in Lon- 
don ; he appeared to me an amiable, well-informed, 
and extremely able man. I desire nothing better than 
to dine in company with such a mannered man every 



day in the week : but of « his character" I know no- 
thing personally; I can only speak to his manners, and 
these have my warmest approbation. But I never judge 
from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the 
civilest gentleman I ever met with; and one of the 
mildest persons I ever saw was Ali Pacha. Of Mr Bowles's 
« character,* I will not do him the injustice to judge 
from the edition of Pope, if he prepared it heedlessly ; 
nor the justice, should it b> otherwise, because I would 
neither become a literary executioner, nor a personal 
one. Mr Bowles the individual, and Mr Bowles the 
editor, appear the two most opposite things imaginable ; 

And he himself one antithesis. 

I won't say « vile,» because it is harsh; nor « mistaken," 
because it has two syllables too many; but every one 
must fill up the blank as he pleases. 

What I saw of Mr Bowles increased my surprise and 
regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such 
a task. If he had been a fool, there would have been 
some excuse for him ; if he had been a needy or a bad 
man, his conduct would have been intelligible ■ but he 
is the opposite of all these ; and thinking and feeling as 
I do of Pope, to me the whole thing is unaccountable. 
However, I must call things by their right names. I 
cannot call his edition of Pope a « candid" work ; and 
I still think that there is an affectation of that quality, 
not only in those volumes, but in the pamphlets lately 
published. 

Why yet he doth deny his prisoners ! 
Mr Bowles says, that he « has seen passages in his letters 
to Martha Blount, which were never published by me, 
and I hope never will he by others ; which are so gross 
as to imply the grossest licentiousness." Is this fair 
play ? It may, or it may not be that such passages exist ; 
and that Pope, who was not a monk, although a. catho- 
lic, may have occasionally sinned in word and in deed 
with woman in his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground 
for such a sweeping denunciation ? Where is the un- 
married Englishman of a certain rank of life, who 
(provided he has not taken orders) has not to reproach 
himself between the ages of sixteen and thirty with far 
more licentiousness than has ever yet been traced to 
Pope? Pope lived in the public eye from his youth up- 
wards; he had all the dunces of his own time for his 
enemies, and, I am sorry to say, some, who have not 
the apology of dulness for detraction, since his death : 
and yet to what do all their accumulated hints and 
charges amount? — to an equivocal liaison with Martha 
Blount, which might arise as much from his infirmities 
as from his passions; to a hopeless flirtation with Lady 
Mary W. Montagu ; to a story of Cibber's ; and to two 
or three coarse passages in his works. Who could come 
forth clearer from an invidious inquest, on a life of fifty- 
six years ? Why are we to be officiously reminded of 
such passages in his letters, provided that they exist. Is 
Mr Bowles aware to what such rummaging among 
« letters" and « stories" might lead? I have myself seen 
a collection of letters of another eminent, nay, pre- 
eminent, deceased poet, so abominably gross, and ela- 
borately coarse, that I do not believe that they could be 
paralleled in our language. What is more strange, is, 
that some of these are couched as postscripts to his 
serious and sentimental letters, to which are tacked 
either a piece of prose, or some verses, of the most 
hyperbolical indecency. He himself says, that if "ob- 
scenity (using a much coarser word) be the sin against 



544 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot be saved." 
These letters are in existence, and have been seen by 
many besides myself; but would his editor have been 
« candid* in even alluding to them ? Nothing would 
have even provoked me, an indifferent spectator, to 
allude to them, but this further attempt at the depre- 
ciation of Pope. 

What should we say to an editor of Addison, who 
cited the following passage from Walpole's letters to 
George Montagu ? « Dr Young has published a new book, 
etc. Mr Addison sent for the young Earl of Warwick, 
as he was dying, to show him in what peace a Christian 
could die ; unluckily he died of brandy; nothing makes 
a Christian die in peace like being maudlin! but don't 
say this in Gath, where you are.» Suppose the editor 
introduced it with this preface : « One circumstance is 
mentioned by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was indeed 
flagitious. Walpole informs Montagu that Addison sent 
for the young Earl of Warwick, when dying, to show 
him in what peace a Christian could die ; but unluckily 
he died drunk, etc., etc.» Now, although there might 
occur on the subsequent, or on the same page, a faint 
show of disbelief, seasoned with the expression of « the 
same candour* (the same exactly as throughout the 
book), I should say that this editor was either foolish 
or false to his trust ; such a story ought not to have been 
admitted, except for one brief mark of crushing in- 
dignation, unless it were completely proved. Why the 
words « if true?* that « if» is not a peace-maker. Why 
talk of « Cibber's testimony" to his licentiousness ; to 
what does this amount ? that Pope, when very young, 
was once decoyed by some nobleman and the player to 
a house of carnal recreation. Mr Bowles was not always 
a clergyman; and when he was a very young man, was 
he never seduced into as much? If I were in the humour 
for story-telling, and relating little anecdotes, I could 
tell a much better story of Mr Bowles than Cibber's, up- 
on much better authority, viz. that of Mr Bowles him- 
self. It was not related by him in my presence, but in 
that of a third person, whom Mr Bowles names oftener 
than once in the course of his replies. This gentleman 
related it to me as a humorous and witty anecdote; 
and so it was, whatever its other characteristics might 
be. But should I, from a youthful frolic, brand Mr Bowles 
with a « libertine sort of love,» or with « licentiousness ?» 
is he the less now a pious or a good man for not having 
always been a priest ? No such thing ; I am willing to 
believe him a good man, almost as good a man as Pope, 
but no better. 

The truth is, that in these days the grand uprimum 
mobile* of England is cant; cant political, cant poetical, 
cant religious, cant moral; but always cant, multiplied 
through all the varieties of life. It is the fashion, and 
while it lasts will be too powerful for those who can 
only exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, 
because it is a thing of words, without the smallest in- 
fluence upon human actions ; the English being no 
wiser, no better, and much poorer, and more divided 
amongst themselves, as well as far less moral, than they 
were before the prevalence of ibis verbal decorum. 
This hysterical horror of poor Pope's not very well 
ascertained, and never fully proved amours (for even 
Cihber owns that he prevented the somewhat perilous 
adventure in which Pope was embarking) sounds very 
virtuous in a controversial pamphlet ; but all men of 
the world who know what life is, or at least what it was 



to them in their youth, must laugh at such a ludicrous 
foundation of the charge of a « libertine sort of love ;» 
while the more serious will look upon those who bring 
forward such charges upon an insulated fact, as fanatics 
or hypocrites, perhaps both. The two are sometimes 
compounded in a happy mixture. 

Mr Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of a 
« second tumbler of hot white-wine negus." What 
does he mean ? Is there any harm in negus ? or is it 
the worse for being hot? or does Mr Bowles drink ne- 
gus? I had a better opinion of him. I hoped that 
whatever wine he drank was neat ; or at least that, like 
the ordinary in Jonathan Wild, « he preferred punch, 
the rather as there was nothing against it in scripture. » 
I should be sorry to believe that Mr Bowles was fond 
of negus ; it is such a « candid" liquor, so like a wishy- 
washy compromise between the passion for wine and 
the propriety of water. But different writers have 
divers tastes. Judge Blackstone composed his « Com- 
mentaries" (he was a poet too in his youth), with a 
bottle of port before him. Addison's conversation was 
not good for much till he had taken a similar dose. 
Perhaps the prescription of these two great men was 
not inferior to the very different one of a soi-disant 
poet of this day, who, after wandering amongst the hills, 
returns, goes to bed, and dictates his verses, being fed 
by a by-stander with bread and butter during the opera- 
tion. 

I now come to Mr Bowles's « invariable principles of 
poetry.» These Mr Bowles and some of his correspond- 
ents pronounce « unanswerable ; » and they are « unan- 
swered," at least hy Campbell, who seems to have been 
astounded by the title. The sultan of the time being, 
offered to ally himself to a king of France, because 
« he hated the word league ;* which proves that the 
Padishan understood French. Mr Campbell has no 
need of my alliance, nor shall I presume,' to offer it; 
but I do hate that word « invariable. » What is there 
of human,be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdom, science, 
power, glory, mind, matter, life or death, which is 
^invariable?* Of course I put things divine out of 
the question. Of all arrogant baptisms of a book, this 
title to a pamphlet appears the most complacently con- 
ceited. It is Mr Campbell's part to answer the contents 
of this performance, and especially to vindicate his own 
« Ship,» which Mr Bowles most triumphantly proclaims 
to have struck to his very first fire. 

Ouoth be, there was a Ship; 

Now let me go, thou grey-hair'd loon. 

Or my staff shall make thee skip. 

It is no affair of mine, but having once begun (certainly 
not by my own wish, but called upon by the frequent 
recurrence to my name in the pamphlets), I am like an 
Irishman in a « row," « any body's customer." I shall 
therefore say a word or two on the « Ship." 

Mr Bowles asserts that Campbell's « Ship of the Line," 
derives all its poetry, not from ««r£,» but from ^nature.* 
« Take away the waves, the winds, the sun, etc., etc. one 
will become a stripe of blue bunting ; and the other a 
piece of coarse canvas on three tall poles." Very true; 
take away the « waves," « the winds," and there will 
be no ship at all, not only for poetical, but for any 
other purpose ; and take away « the sun,» and we must 
read Mr Bowles's pamphlet by candle-light. But the 
«poetry» of the «Ship» does notdepend on «the waves," 
etc. ; on the contrary, the « Ship of the Line» confers 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



545 



;ts own poetry upon the waters, and heightens theirs. I 
do not deny, that the « waves and winds, » and ahove 
ail « the sun, » are highly poetical ; we know it to our 
cost, by the many descriptions of them in verse : hut 
if the waves bore only the foam upon their bosoms, if 
the winds wafted only the sea-weed to the shore, if the 
sun shone neither upon pyramids, nor fleets, nor for- 
tresses, would its beams be equally poetical ? I think 
not: the poetry is at least reciprocal. Take away « the 
ship of the line» « swinging rouiul» the « calm water," 
and the calm water becomes a somewhat monotonous 
thing to look at, particularly if not transparently clear; 
witness the thousands who pass by without looking on 
it at all. What was it attracted the thousands to the 
launch ? they might have seen the poetical «calm water, » 
at Wapping, or in the "London Dock," or in the Pad- 
dington Canal, or in a horse-pond, or in a slop-basin, or 
in any other vase. They might have heard the poetical 
winds howling through the chinks of a pig-stye, or the 
garret-window ; they might have seeu the sun shining 
on a footman's livery, or on a brass warming-pan; but 
could the «calm water," or the «wind,» or the « sun,» 
make all, or any of these « poetical?" I think not. 
Mr Bowles admits « the ship» to be poetical, but only 
from those accessaries: now if they confer poetry so as 
to make one thing poetical, they would make other 
things poetical ; the more so, as Mr Howies calls a «ship 
of the line» without them, that is to say, its « masts and 
sails and streamers," « blue bunting," and « coarse can- 
vas," and « tall poles." So they are; and porcelain is 
clay, and man is dust, and flesh is grass, and yet the 
two latter at least are the subjects of much poesy. 

Did Mr Bowles ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
that he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
ever paint the sea only, without the addition of a ship, 
boat, wreck, or some such adjunct? Is the sea itself a 
more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object 
with or without a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing 
monotony! Is a storm more poetical without a ship? 
or, in the poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the 
ship which most interests? both much undoubtedly; but 
without the vessel, what should we care for the tempest? 
It would sink into mere descriptive poetry, which in 
itself was never esteemed a high order of that art. 

I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval mat- 
ters, at least to poets : — with the exception of Walter 
Scott, Moore, and Southey, perhaps (who have been 
voyagers), I have swain more miles than all the rest of 
them together now living ever sailed, and have lived 
for months and months on ship-board ; and during the 
whole period of my life abroad, have scarcely ever passed 
a month out of sight of the ocean: besides being brought 
up from two years till ten on the brink of it. I recol- 
lect, when anchored off Cape Sigsum, in 1810, in an 
English frigate, a violent squall coming on at sunset, so 
violent as to make us imagine that the ship would part 
cable, or drive from her anchorage. Mr Hobhouse and 
myself, and some officers, had been up the Dardanelles 
to Abydos, and were just returned in time. The aspect 
of a storm in the Archipelago is as poetical as need be, 
the seabeing particularly short, dashing, and dangerous, 
and the navigation intricate and broken by the isles and 
currents. CapeSigaeum, the tumuli of the Troad, Lem- 
nos, Tenedos, all added to the associations of the time. 
But what seemed the most « poetical* of all at the mo- 
ment, were the numbers (about two huudred) of Greek 



and Turkish craft, which were obliged to « cut and rfihn 
before the wind, from their uusafe anchorage, some for 
Tenedos, some for other isles, some for the main, and 
some it might be for eternity. The sight of these little 
scudding vessels, darting over the foam in the twilight, 
now appearing and now disappearing between the waves | 
in the cloud of night, with their peculiarly white sails 
(the Levant sails not being of « coarse canvas*, but of 
white cotton), skimming along as quickly, but less safely 
than the sea-mews which hovered over them ; their 
evident distress, their reduction to fluttering specks in 
the distance, their crowded succession, their littleness, 
as contending with the giant element, which made our 
stout forty-four's teak timbers (she was built in India) 
creak again ; their aspect and their motion, all struck 
me as something far more « poetical" than the mere 
broad, brawling, shipless sea, and the sullen winds, 
could possibly have been without them. 

The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the port 
of Constantinople the most beautiful of harbours, and 
yet I cannot but think that the twenty sail of the line, 
some of one hundred and forty guns, rendered it more 
« poetical" by day in the sun, and by night perhaps still 
more, for the Turks illuminate their vessels of war in a 
manner the most picturesque, and yet all this is arti- 
ficial. As for the Euxine, I stood upon the Symple- 
gades — I stood by the broken altar still exposedto the 
winds upon one of them — I felt all the « poetry* of the 
situation, as I repeated the first lines of Medea; but 
would not that « poetry" have been heightened by the 
Argo ? It was so even by the appearance of any mer- 
chant yessel arriving from Odessa. But Mr Bowles says, 
« why bring your ship off the stocks?" for no reason 
that I know, except that ships are built to be launched. 
The water,etc, undoubtedly heightens the poetical asso- 
ciations, but it does not make them ; and the ship am- 
ply repays the obligation : they aid each other ; the 
water is more poetical with the ship— the ship less so 
without the water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is 
a grand and poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel up 
wards, wrecked upon the barren sand, is a « poetical" 
object (and Wordsworth, who made a poem about a 
washing-tub and a blind boy, may tell you so as well 
as Ijwhilst a longextent of sand and unbroken water, 
without the boat, would be as like dull prose as any 
pamphlet lately published. 

What makes the poetry in the image of the « marble 
waste of Tadmor,» or Grainger's « Ode to Solitude, » 
so much admired by Johnson? Is it the « marble,* or 
the «waste,» the artificial or the natural object. The 
« waste" is like all other wastes; but the « marble* of 
Palmyra makes the poetry of the passage as of the 
place. 

The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole coast 
of Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentelicus, Anches- 
mus, Philopappus, etc., etc., are in themselves poetical, 
and would be so if the name of Athens, of Athenians, 
and her very ruins, were swept from the earth. But 
am I to be told that the « nature" of Attica would be 
more poetical without the « art" of the Acropolis ? of 
the Temple of Theseus? and of the still all Greek and 
glorious monuments of her exquisitely artificial genius ? 
Ask the traveller what strikes him as most poetical, 
the Parthenon, or the rock on which it stands? The 
columns of Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? The 
rocks, at the foot of it, or the recollection that Falconer's 

°9 



546 



BYRON'S WORK! 



ship was bulged upon them. There are a thousand 
rocks and capes, far more picturesque than those of 
the Acropolis and Cape Sunium in themselves; what 
are they to a thousand scenes in the wilder parts of 
Greece, of Asia Minor, Switzerland, or even of Cintra 
in Portugal, or to many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras 
of Spain ? But it is the « art,** the columns, the tem- 
ples, the wrecked vessel, which give them their antique 
and their modern poetry, and not the spots themselves. 
Without them, the spots of earth would be unnoticed 
and unknown ; buried, like Babylon and Nineveh, in 
indistinct confusion, without poetry, as without exist- 
ence : but to whatever spot of earth these ruins were 
transported, if they were capable of transportation, 
like the obelisk, and the sphinx, and the Memnon's 
head, there they would still exist in the perfection of 
their beauty and in the pride of their poetry. I opposed, 
and will ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from Athens, 
to instruct the English in sculpture; but why did I so? 
The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in 
the Parthenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock are less 
so without them. Such is the poetry of art. 

Mr Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
Egypt are poetical, because of « the association with 
boundless deserts, » and that a « pyramid of the same 
dimensious>> would not be sublime in « Lincoln's Inn 
Fields;» not so poetical certainly ; but take away the 
« pyramids,)) and what is the « desert?** Take away 
Stone-henge from Salisbury plain, and it is nothing 
more than Hounslow Heath, or any other uninclosed 
down. It appears to me that St Peter's, the Coliseum, 
the Pantheon, the Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoon, 
the Venus di Medicis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, 
the Moses of Michel Angelo, and all the higher works 
of Canova (I have already spoken of those of ancient 
Greece, still extant in that country, or transported to 
England), are as poetical as Mont Blanc or Mount ./Etna, 
perhaps still more so, as they are direct manifestations 
of mind, and presuppose poetry in their very concep- 
tion; and have, moreover, as being such, a something 
of actual life, which cannot belong to any part of inani- 
mate nature, unless we adopt the system of Spinosa, 
that the world is the deity. There can be nothing more 
poetical in its aspect than the city of Venice : does this 
depend upon the sea, or the canals? — 

The dirt and sea-weed whence proud Venice rose! 

Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
prison, or the« Bridge of Sighs» which connects them, 
that render it poetical ? Is it the « Canal Grande,» 
or the Rialto which arches it, the churches which tower 
over it, the palaces which line, and the gondolas which 
glide over the waters, that render this city more poetical 
than Rome itself? Mr Bowles will say, perhaps, that the 
Rialto is but marble, the palaces and churches only 
stone, and the gondolas a «coarse» black cloth, thrown 
over some planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
fantastically- formed iron at the prow, « without** the 
water. And I tell him that without these the water 
would be nothing but a clay-coloured ditch ; and who- 
ever says the contrary, deserves to be at the bottom of 
that where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud- 
nymphs. There would be nothing to make the canal 
of Venice more poclical than that of Paddington, were 
it not for the artificial adjuncts above mentioned, al- 
though it is a perfectly natural canal, formed by the 



sea, and the innumerable islands which constitute the 
site of this extraordinary city. 

The very Cloacae of Tarquin at Rome are as poetical 
as Richmond Hill ; many will think more so. Take 
away Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven hills, in 
the nature of Evander's time ; let Mr Bowles, or Mr 
Wordsworth, or Mr Southey, or any of the other « natu- 
rals,)) make a poem upon them, and then see which is 
most poetical, their production, or the commonest 
guide-book which tells you the road from St Peter's 
to the Coliseum, and informs you what you will see 
by the way. The ground interests in Virgil, because it 
will be Rome, and not because it is Evander's rural 
domain. 

Mr Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into his ser- 
vice, in answer to a remark of Mr Campbell's, that 
« Homer was a great describer of works of art.» Mr 
Bowles contends that all his great power, even in this, 
depends upon their connexion with nature. The « shield 
of Achilles derives its poetical interest from the subjects 
described on it.» And from what does the spear of 
Achilles derive its interest? and the helmet and the mail 
worn by Patroclus, and the celestial armour, and the 
very brazen greaves of the well-booted Greeks? Is it solely 
from the legs, and the back, and the breast, and the hu- 
man body, which they inclose ? In that case, it would 
have been more poetical to have made them fight naked ; 
and Gulley and Gregson, as being nearer to a state of 
nature, are more poetical, boxing in a pair of drawers, 
than Hector and Achilles in radiant armour, and with 
heroic weapons. 

Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing of 
chariots, and the whizzing of spears, and the glancing of 
swords, and the cleaving of shields, and the piercing of 
breast-plates, why not represent the Greeks and Trojans 
like two savage tribes, tugging and tearing, and kicking, 
and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and goug- 
ing, in all the poetry of martial nature, unincumbered 
with gross, prosaic, artificial arms, an equal superfluity 
to the natural warrior, and his natural poet ? Is there 
any thing unpoetical in Ulysses striking the horses of 
Rhesus with his how (having forgotten his thong), or 
would Mr Bowles have had him kick them with his 
foot, or smack them with his hand, as being more un- 
sophisticated? 

In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking 
than his « shapeless sculpture ?» Of sculpture in gene- 
ral, it may be observed, that it is more poetical than 
nature itself, inasmuch as it represents and bodies forth 
that ideal beauty and sublimity which is never to be 
found in actual nature. This at least is the general 
opinion ; but, always excepting the Venus di Medicis, I 
differ from that opinion, at least as far as regards fe- 
male beauty, for the head of Lady Charlemont (when I 
first saw her, nine years ago) seemed to possess all that 
sculpture could require for its ideal. I recollect seeing 
something of the same kind in the head of an Albanian 
girl, who was actually employed in mending a road in 
the mountains, and in some Greek, and one or two 
Italian faces. But of sublimity, I have never seen any 
thing in human nature at all to approach the expres- 
sion of sculpture, either in the Apollo, the Moses, or 
other of the sterner works of ancient or modern art. 

Let us examine a little further this « babble of green 
fields,)' and of bare nature in general, as superior to 
artificial imagery, for the poetical purposes of the fine 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



54 



17 



arts. In landscape painting, the great artist does not 
give you a literal copy of a country, but he invents and 
composes one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not 
furnish him with such existing scenes as he requires. 
Even where he presents you with some famous city, or 
celebrated scene from mountain or other nature, it 
must be taken from some particular point of view, and 
with such light, and shade, and distance, etc. as serve 
not only to heighten its beauties, but to shadow its de- 
formities. The poetry of nature alone, exactly as she 
appears, is not sufficient to bear him out. The very sky 
of his painting is not the portrait of the sky of nature ; 
it is a composition of different skies, observed at diffe- 
rent times, and not the whole copied from any particu- 
lar day. And why? Because Nature is not lavish of 
her beauties; they are widely scattered, and occasionally 
displayed, to be selected with care, and gathered with 
difficulty. 

Of sculpture I have just spoken. It is the great 
scope of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic 
beauty, i. e. in plain English, to surpass his model. 
When Canova forms a statue, he takes a limb from one, 
a hand from another, a feature from a third, and a 
shape, it may be, from a fourth, probably at the same 
time improving upon all, as the Greek of old did in 
embodying his Venus. 

Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in ac- 
commodating the faces with which Nature and his sit- 
ters have crowded his painting-room to the principles of 
his art; with the exception of perhaps ten faces in as 
many millions, there is not one which he can venture to 
give without shading much and adding more. Nature, 
exactly, simply, barely nature, will make no great artist 
of any kind, and least of all a poet— the most artificial, 
perhaps, of all artists in his veryjessence. With regard 
to natural imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of 
their best illustrations from art. You say that « a foun- 
tain is as clear or clearer than glassy to express its 
beauty — 

fons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro ! 

In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Caesar is 
displayed, but so also is his mantle : 

You all do know this mantle, etc. 

Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through. 

If the poet had said that Cassius had run his^st through 
the rent of the mantle, it would have had more of Mr 
Bowles's « nature» to help it; but the artificial dagger is 
more poetical than any natural hand without it. In the 
sublime of sacred poetry, « Who is this that cometh 
from Edom ? with dyed garments from Bozrah ?» Would 
« the comerw be poetical without his « dyed garments 1 .-* 
which strike and startle the spectator, and identify the 
approaching object. 

The mother of Sisera is represented listening for the 
« wheels o/"his chariot. » Solomon, in his Song, com- 
pares the nose of his beloved to a « tower, » which to us 
appears an eastern exaggeration. If he had said, that 
her statue was like that of «a tower," it would have 
been as poetical as if he had compared her to a tree. 

The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex, 

is an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
superiority. But Solomon, it is probable, did not com- 



pare his beloved's nose to a «tower» on account of its 
length, but of its symmetry ; and, making allowance for 
eastern hyperbole and the difficulty of finding a discreet 
image for a female nose in nature, it is perhaps as^good 
a figure as any other. 

Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes. 
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object 
of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their 
dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial sym- 
metry of their position and movements. A Highland- 
er's plaid, a Mussulman's turban, and a Roman toga, 
are more poetical than the tattoed or untattoed but- 
tocks of a New Sandwich savage, although they were 
described by William Wordsworth himself like the 
« idiot in his g!ory.» 

I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
fleets than the generality of landsmen: and to my mind, 
a large convoy, with afew sail of the line to conduct them, 
is as noble and as poetical a prospect as all that inani- 
mate nature can produce. I prefer the « mast of some 
great ammiral,» with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or 
the Alpine tannen: and think that more poetry has been 
made out of it. In what does the infinite superiority of 
« Falconer's Shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, con- 
sist? In his admirable application of the terms of his 
art; in a poet-sailor's description of the sailor's fate. 
These very terms, by his application, make the strength 
and reality of his poem. Why? because he was a poet, 
and in the hands of a poet art will not be found less 
ornamental than nature. It is precisely in general na- 
ture, and in stepping out of his element, that Falconer 
fails; where he digresses to speak of ancient Greece, and 
« such branches of learning." 

In Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which his fame rests, 
the very appearance of Nature herself is moralised into 
an artificial image: 

Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 

To instruct our wandering thought ; 

Thus she dresses green andgaij. 

To disperse our cares away. 
And here also we have the telescope, the mis-use of 
which, from Milton, has rendered Mr Bowles so triumph- 
ant over Mr Campbell: 

So we mistake the future's face. 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass. 

And here a word, en passant, to Mr Campbell : 

As yon summits, soft and fair, 
Clad in colours of the air, 
Which, to those who journey near,. 
Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
Still we tread the same coarse way — 
The present' s still a cloudy day. 

Is not this the original of the far-famed 

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue ! 

To return once more to the sea. Let any one look on 
the long wall of Malamocco, which curbs the Adriatic, 
and pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely 
that Roman work (I mean Roman in conception and 
performance), which says to the ocean, « thus far shait 
thou come, and no further," and is obeyed, is not less 
sublime and poetical than the angry waves which vainly 
break beneath it. 

Mr Bowles makes the chief part of a ship's poesy de- 
pend on the « wind :» then why is a ship under sail more 



548 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



poetical than a hog in a liijjli wind? The hog is all 
nature, the ship is all art, « coarse canvas," « blue 
bunling,« and « tall po!es;» both are violently acted 
upon by the wind, tossed here and there, to and fro ; 
and yet nothing but excess of hunger could make me 
look upon the pig as the more poetical of the two, and 
then only in the shape of a griskin. 

Will Mr Rowles tell us that the poetry of an aqueduct 
consists in the water which it conveys? Let him look 
on that of Justinian, on those of Rome, Constantinople, 
Lisbon, and Elvas, or even at the remains of that in 
Attica. 

We are asked, «what makes the venerable towers of 
Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, than the 
tower for the manufactory of patent shot, surrounded by 
the same scenery ?» 1 will answer — the architecture. 
Turn Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, into a powder 
magazine, their poetry, as objects, remains the same; 
the Parthenon was actually converted into one by the 
Turks, during Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it 
destroyed in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled 
their steeds in Worcester cathedral; was it less poetical, 
as an object, than before? Ask a foreigner on his ap- 
proach to London, what strikes him as the most poetical 
of the towers before him ; he will point out St Paul's and 
Westminster Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing the 
names or associations of either, and pass over the « tower 
for patent shot," not that, for any thing he knows to 
the contrary, it might not be the mausoleum of a mo- 
narch, or a Waterloo column, or a Trafalgar monu- 
ment, but because its architecture is obviously inferior. 

To the question, « whether the description of a game 
of cards be as poetical, supposing the execution of the 
artists equal, as a description of a walk in a forest?" 
it may be answered, that the materials are certainly 
not equal; but that « the artist,» who has rendered 
the « game of cards poetical," is by far the greater of 
the two. But all this « ordering" of poets is purely ar- 
bitrary on the part of Mr Bowles. There may or may 
not be, in fact, different « orders" of poetry, but the 
poet is always ranked according to his execution, and 
not according to his branch of the art. 

Tragedy is one of the highest presumed orders. Hughes 
has written a tragedy, and a very successful one; 
Fenton another; and Pope none. Did any man, how- 
ever, — will even Mr Bowles, himself rank Hughes and 
Fenton as poets above Pope? Was even Addison (the 
author of Cato), or Bowe (one of the higher order of 
dramatists, as far as success goes), or Young, or even 
Otway and Southerne, ever raised for a moment to the 
same rank with Pope in the estimation of the reader 
or the critic, before his death or since ? If Mr Bowles will 
contend for classifications of this kind, let him recollect 
that descriptive poetry has been ranked as among the 
lowest branches of the art, and description as a mere or- 
nament, but which should never form « the subject" of 
a poem. The Italians, with the most poetical language, 
and the most fastidious taste in Europe, possess now five 
great poets, they say, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, 
and lastly Alfieri; and whom do they esteem one of the 
highest of these, and some of them the very highest? 
Petrarch, the sonneteer : it is true that some of his 
Canzoni are not less esteemed, but not more; who ever 
dreams of his Latin Africa! 

Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the « order» 
of his compositions, where would the best of sonnets 



place him? with Dante and the others? No: but, as I have 
before said, the poet who executes best is the highest, 
whatever his department, and will ever be so rated in 
the world's esteem. 

Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he 
stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher; 
it is the corner-stone of his glory; without it, his odes 
would be insufficient for his fame. The depreciation 
of Pope is partly founded upon a false idea of the 
dignity of his order of poetry, to which he has partly 
contributed by the ingenuous boast, 

That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long, 
But sloop'd to truth, and moralised his song. 

He should have written « rose to truth." In my mind 
the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as the high- 
est of all earthly objects must be moral truth. Religion 
does not make a part of my subject; it is something 
beyond human powers, and has failed in all human 
hands except Milton's and Dante's, and even Dante's 
powers are involved in his delineation of human pas- 
sions, though in supernatural circumstances. What 
made Socrates the greatest of men? His moral truth — 
his ethics. What proved Jesus Christ the Son of God 
hardly less than his miracles? His moral precepts. 
And if ethics have made a philosopher the first of men 
and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his gospel 
by the Deity himself, are we to be told that ethical 
poetry, or didactic poetry, or by whatever name you 
term it, whose object is to make men better and wiser, 
is not the very first order of poetry; and are we to be 
told this too by one of the priesthood? It requires 
more mind, more wisdom, more power, than all the 
« forests" that ever were « walked" for their « descrip- 
tion," and all the epics that ever were founded upon 
fields of battle. The Georgics are indisputably, and, 
I believe, undisputedly , even a finer poem than the 
vEneid. Virgil knew this; he did not order them to be 
burnt. 

The proper study of mankind is man. 

It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress upon 
what they call « imagination" and « invention," the two 
commonest of qualities: an Irish peasant, with a little 
whiskey in his head, will imagine and invent more 
than would furnish forth a modern poem. If Lucretius 
had not been spoiled by the Epicurean system, we 
should have had a far superior poem to any now in 
existence. As mere poetry, it is the first of Latin 
poems. What then has ruined it? His ethics. Pope 
has not this defect; his moral is as pure as his poetry 
is glorious. In speaking of artificial objects, I have 
omitted to touch upon one which I will now mention. 
Cannon may be presumed to be as highly poetical as 
art can make her objects. Mr Bowles will, perhaps, 
tell me that this is because they resemble that grand 
natural article of sound in heaven, and simile upon 
earth — thunder. I shall be told triumphantly, that 
Milton made sad work with his artillery, when he armed 
his devils therewithal. He did so ; and this artificial 
object must have had much of the sublime to attract 
his attention for such a conflict. He has made an 
absurd use of it; but the absurdity consists not in 
using cannon against the angels of God, but any 
material weapon. The thunder of the clouds would 
have been as ridiculous and vain in the hands of the 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



549 



devils, as the «villanous saltpetre :» the angels were as 
impervious to the one as to the other. The thunder- 
bolts became sublime in the hands of the Almighty, 
not as such, but because he deigns to use them as a means 
of repelling the rebel spirits ; but no one can attribute 
their defeat to this grand piece of natural electricity : 
the Almighty willed, and they fell ; his word would have 
been enough ; and Milton is as absurd (and in fact, 
blasphemous) in putting material lightnings into the 
hands of the Godhead, as in giving him hands at all. 

The artillery of the demons was but the first step of 
his mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a step lower. 
It would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 
The subject altogether was essentially unpoetical; he 
has made more of it than another could, but it is be- 
yond him and all men. 

In a portion of his reply, Mr Bowles asserts that Pope 
«envied Phillips" because he quizzed his pastorals in 
the Guardian, in that most admirable model of irony, 
his paper on the subject. If there was any thing 
enviable about Phillips, it could hardly be his pasto- 
rals. They were despicable, and Pope expressed his 
contempt. If Mr Fitzgerald published a volume of son- 
nets, or a « Spirit of Discovery," or a « Missionary," 
and Mr Bowles wrote in any periodical journal an 
ironical paper upon them, would this be «envy?» The 
authors of the "Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the 
sixteen or twenty «first living poets» of the day; but 
do they «envy» them? «Envy» writhes, it don't laugh. 
The authors of the "Rejected Addresses" may despise 
some, but they can hardly «envy» any of the persons 
whom they have parodied,- and Pope could have no 
more envied Phillips than he did Welsted, or Theobalds, 
or Smedley, or any other given hero of the Dunciad. 
He could not have envied him, even had he himself not 
been the greatest poet of his age. Did Mr Ings «envj» 
Mr Phillips, when he asked him, « how came your 
Pyrrhus to drive oxen, and say, I am goaded on by 
love !» This question silenced poor Phillips ; but it no 
more proceeded from «envy» than did Pope's ridicule. 
Did he envy Swift? Did he envy Bolingbroke? Did he 
envy Gay the unparalleled success of his «Beggar's 
Opera?" We may be answered that these were his 
friends — true; but does friendship prevent envy! 
Study the first woman you meet with, or the first scrib- 
bler, let Mr Bowles himself (whom I acquit fully of 
such an odious quality) study some of his own poetical 
intimates : the most envious man I ever heard of is a 
poet, and a high one ; besides it is an universal passion. 
Goldsmith envied not only the puppets for their danc- 
ing, and broke his shins in the attempt at rivalry, but 
was seriously angry because two pretty women re- 
ceived more attention than he did. This is envy; but 
where does Pope show a sign of the passion? In that 
case, Dryden envied the hero of his Mac Flecknoe. Mr 
Bowles compares, when and where he can, Pope with 
Cowper (the same Cowper whom, in his edition of Pope, 
he laughs at for his attachment to an old woman, Mrs 
Unwin : search and you will find it ; I remember the 
passage, though not the page); in particular he re- 
quotes Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood, drawn 
up like a seedsman's catalogue, ' with an affected imi- 



1 I will submit to Mr Bowles's own judgment a passage fromanoilier 
poem of Cowper's, to be compared with the same writer's Sylvan 
Sampler. In the lines to Marv. 



tation of Milton's style, as burlesque as the « Splendid 
Shilling." These two writers (for Cowper is no poet) 
come into comparison in one great work — the trans- 
lation of Homer. Now, with all the great, and mani- 
fest, and manifold, and reproved, and acknowledged, 
and uncontroverted faults of Pope's translation, and 
all the scholarship, and pains, and time, and trouble, 
and blank verse of the other, who can ever read Cowper? 
and who will ever lay down Pope, unless for the 
original? Pope's was « not Homer, it was Spondanus ;» 
but Cowper's is not Homer, either, it is not even Cow- 
per. As a child I first read Pope's Homer with a rap- 
ture which no subsequent work could ever afford; and 
children are not the worst judges of their own lan- 
guage. As a boy I read Homer in the original, as we 
have all done, some of us by force, and a few by 
favour; under which description I come is nothing to 
the purpose, it is enough that I read him. As a man 
I have tried to read Cowper's version; and I found it 
impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded ? 

And now that we have heard the Catholic reproached 
with envy, duplicity, licentiousness, avarice — what was 
the Calvinist? He attempted the most atrocious of 
crimes in the Christian code, viz. suicide — and why? 
Because he was to be examined whether he was fit for 
an office which he seems to wish to have made a sine- 
cure. His connexion with Mrs Unwin was pure enough, 
for the old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
why then is the infirm and then elderly Pope to be re- 
proved for his connexion with Martha Blount ? Cow- 
per was the almoner of Mrs Throgmorton ; but Pope's 
charities were his own, and they were noble and ex- 
tensive, far beyond his fortune's warrant. Pope was 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 

For my sake restless heretofore, 

Now rust disused, and shine no more, 

My Mary, 
contain a simple, household, « indoor,' artificial, and ordinary image. 
I refer Mr Bowles to the stanza, and ask if these three lines about 
« needles* are not worth all the boasted twaddling about trees, so 
triumphantly re-quoted? and yet in fact what do they convey? A 
homely collection of images and ideas associated with the darning of 
stockings, and the hemming of shirts, and the mending of breeches ; 
but will auy one deny that they are eminently poetical and pathetic 
as addressed by Cowper to his nurse ? The trash of trees reminds me 
of a saying of Sheridan's. Soon after the u Rejected Address" scene, 
in 1S12, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, u Lord 
Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses wasWhit- 
bread himself ?" I answered by an enquiry of what sort of an address 
he had made, u Of that." replied Sheridan, u I remember little, ex- 
cept that there was a phoenix in it. » a A phoenix ! ! Well, how did he 
describe it?> « bike a poulterer, » answered Sheridan : « it was green, 
and yellow, and red, and blue : he did not let us off for a single fea- 
ther." And just such as this poulterer's account of a phoenix, is 
Cowper's stick-picker's detail of a wood, with all its petty minutiae 
of this, that, and the other. 

One more poetical instance of the power of art, and even its supe- 
riority over nature, in poetry, and I have done : — the bust of Anti- 
nous! Is there any thing in nature like this marble, excepting the 
Venus ? Can there I e more poetry gathered into existence than in 
that wonderful creation of perfect beauty ? But the poetry of this bust 
is in no respect derived from nature, nor from any association of moral 
exaltedness ; for what is there in common with moral nature and the 
male minion of Adrian ? The very execution is not natural, but super- 
natural, or rather super-artificial, for nature has never done so much. 
Away, then, with this cant about nature and « invariable principles 
of poetry!" A great artist will make a block of stone as sublime as 
a mountain, and a good poet can imbue a pack of cards with more 
poetry than inhabits the forests of America. It is the business and 
the proof of a poet to give the lie to the proverb, and sometimes to 
u make a silken purse out of a sow's ear;" and to conclude with an- 
other homely proverb, ^a good workman will not find fault with his 
tools." 



55o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the tolerant yet steady adherent of the most bigoted of 
sects ; and Cowper the most bigoted and despondent 
sectary that ever anticipated damnation to himself or 
others. Is this harsh? I know it is, and I do not assert 
it as my opinion of Cowper personally, but to show 
what might be said, with just as great an appearance of 
truth and candour, as all the odium which has been 
accumulated upon Pope in similar speculations. Cow- 
per was a good man, and lived at a fortunate time for 
his works. 

Mr Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon his 
own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, brought 
forward the names of Southey and Moore. Mr Southey 
« agrees entirely with Mr Bowles in his invariable 
principles of poetry. » The least that Mr Bowles can do 
in return is to approve the « invariable principles of Mr 
Southey.» I should have thought that the word « in- 
variable* might have stuck in Southey's throat, like 
Macbeth's «Amen!» I am sure it did in mine, and I 
am not the least consistent of the two, at least as a 
voter. Moore (et tu Brute!) also approves, and a Mr 
J. Scott. There is a letter also of two lines from a 
gentleman in asterisks, who it seems, is a poet of «the 
highest rank» — who can this be? not my friend, Sir 
Walter, surely. Campbell it can't be ; Rogers it won't 
be. 

« You have kit the nail in the head, and * * * * [Pope, I presume] 
on the head also.» 

I remain, yours, affectionately. 

(Four Asterisks.) 

And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this person 
may be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, 
that «the nail» which Mr Bowles has hit in the head» 
should be driven through his own ears ; I am sure that 
they are long enough. 

The attention of the poetical populace of the present 
day to obtain an ostracism against Pope is as easily ac- 
counted for as the Athenian's shell against Aristides; 
they are tired of hearing him always called «the Just.» 
They are also fighting for life; for if he maintains his 
station, they will reach their own falling. They have 
raised a mosque by the side of a Grecian temple of the 
purest architecture ; and, more barbarous than the bar- 
barians from whose practice I have borrowed the 
figure, they are not contented with their own grotesque 
edifice, unless they destroy the prior and purely beauti- 
ful fabric which preceded, and which shames them and 
theirs for ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst 
those I have been (or it may be still am) conspicuous — 
true, and I am ashamed of it. I have been amongst 
the builders of this Babel, attended by a confusion of 
tongues, but never amongst the envious destroyers of 
the classic temple of our predecessor. I have loved 
and honoured the fame and name of that illustrious 
and unrivalled man, far more than my own paltry 
renown, and the trashy jingle of the crowd of 
« schools» and upstarts, who pretend to rival, or even 
surpass him. Sooner than a single leaf should be 
torn from his laurel, it were better that all which these 
men, and that I, as one of their set, have ever written , 
should 

Line trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
Befringe the rails of Bedlam or Soho ! 

There are those who will believe this, and those who 



will not. You, Sir, know how far I am sincere, and 
whether, my opinion, not only in the short work in- 
tended for publication, and in private letters which 
can never be published, has or has not been the same. 
I look upon this as the declining age of English poetry ; 
no regard for others, no selfish feeling, can prevent me 
from seeing this, and expressing the truth. There can 
be no worse sign for the taste of the times than the 
depreciation of Pope. It would be better to receive for 
proof Mr Cobbett's rough but strong attack upon 
Shakspeare and Milton, than to allow this smooth and 
«candid» undermining of the reputation of the most 
perfect of our poets and the purest of our moralists. 
Of his power in the passions, in description, in the 
mock-heroic, I leave others to descant. I take him on 
his strong ground, as an ethical poet : in the former 
none excel, in the mock-heroic and the ethical none 
equal him ■ and, in my mind, the latter is the highest 
of all poetry, because it does that in verse, which the 
greatest of men have wished to accomplish in prose. 
If the essence of poetry must be a lie, throw it to the 
dogs, or banish it from your republic, as Plato would 
have done. He who can reconcile poetry with truth 
and wisdom, is the only true « poet* in its real sense ; 
« the maker,* « the creator* — why must this mean the 
«liar,» the « feigner,» « the tale-teller?» A man may 
make and create better things than these. 

I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a 
poet as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemy, 
Warton, places him immediately under them. I would 
no more say this than I would assert in the mosque 
(once Saint Sophia's), that Socrates was a greater man 
than Mahomet. But if I say that he is very near them, 
it is no more than has been asserted of Burns, who is 
supposed 

To rival all but Shakspeare's name below. 

I say nothing against this opinion. But of what «order,* 
according to the poetical aristocracy, are Burns's poems? 
These are his opus magnum, «Tam 0'Shanter,» a tale; 
the "Cotter's Saturday Night,» a descriptive sketch; 
some others in the same style ; the rest are songs. So 
much for the rank of his productions ; the rank of 
Burns is the very first of his art. Of Pope I have ex- 
pressed my opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect 
which the present attempts at poetry have had upon 
our literature. If any great national or natural con- 
vulsion could or should overwhelm your country, in 
such sort as to sweep Great Britain from the kingdoms 
of the earth, and leave only that, after all the most 
living of human things, a dead language, to be studied 
and read, and imitated by the wise of future and far 
generations upon foreign shores; if your literature 
should become the learning of mankind, divested of 
party cabals, temporary fashions, and national pride 
and prejudice; an Englishman, anxious that the pos- 
terity of strangers should know that there had been 
such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedy, might wish 
for the preservation of Shakspeare and Milton ; but 
the surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, 
and let the rest sink with the people. He is the moral 
poet of all civilization, and, as such, let us hope that 
he will one day be the national poet of mankind. He 
is the only poet that never shocks ; the only poet whose 
faultlessness has been made his reproach. Cast your 
eye over his productions ; consider their extent, and 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



55 1 



contemplate their variety :— pastoral, passion, mock- 
heroic, translation, satire, ethics, — all excellent, and 
often perfect. If his great charm be his melody, how 
comes it that foreigners adore him even in their diluted 
translation? But I have made this letter too long. 
Give my compliments to Mr Bowles. 

Yours ever, very truly, 

BYRON. 
To J. Murray, Esq. 

Post scriptam.— Long as this letter has grown, I 
find it necessary to append a postscript,— if possible, a 
short one. Mr Bowles denies that he has accused Pope 
of «a sordid money-getting passion ;» but he adds «if 

j I had ever done so, I should be glad to find any testi- 
mony that might show me he was not so. » This tes- 
timony he may find, to his heart's content, in Spence 
and elsewhere. First, there is Martha Blount, who, 

I Mr Bowles charitably says, « probably thought he did 
not save enough for her as legatee. » Whatever she 

i thought upon this point, her words are in Pope's 
favour. Then there is Alderman Barber ; see Spence's 

i Anecdotes. There is Pope's cold answer to Halifax, 
when he proposed a pension ,- his behaviour to Craggs 
and to Addison upon like occasions; and his own two 

| lines — 

Aiid, thanks to Homer, since I live and thrive, 
Indebted to no prince or peer alive— 

written when princes would have been proud to pen- 
sion, and peers to promote him, and when the whole 
army of dunces were in array against him, and would 
have been but too happy to deprive him of this boast 
of independence. But there is something a little more 
serious in Mr Bowles's declaration, that he « would have 
spoken» of his «noble generosity to the outcast, Richard 
Savage,» and other instances of a compassionate and 
generous heart, « had they occurred to his recollection 
when he wrote.* What ! is it come to this ? Does 
Mr Bowles sit down to write a minute and laboured life 
and edition of a great poet? Does he anatomize his 
character, moral and poetical? Does he present us 
with his faults and with his foibles ? Does he sneer at 
his feelings, and doubt of his sincerity? Does he unfold 
his vanity and duplicity? and then omit the good qua- 
lities which might, in part, have « covered this multi- 
tude of sins?» and then plead that « they did not occur 
to his recollection!* Is this the frame of mind and of 
memory with which the illustrious dead are to be ap- 
proached? If Mr Bowles, who must have had access to 
all the means of refreshing his memory, did not recol- 
lect these facts, he is unfit for his task; but if he did 
recollect, and omit them, I know not what he is fit 
for, but I know what would be fit for him. Is the plea 
of «not recollecting)) sucli prominent facts to be ad- 
mitted ? Mr Bowles has been at a public school, and, as 
I have been publicly educated also, I can sympathise 
with his predilection. When we were in the third form 
even, had we pleaded on the Monday morning, that we 
had not brought up the Saturday's exercise because 
« we had forgotten it,» what would have been the re- 
ply? And is an excuse, which would not be pardoned 
to a schoolboy, to pass current in a matter which so 
nearly concerns the fame of the first poet of his age, if 
not of his country? If Mr Bowles so readily forgets the 
virtues of others, why complain so grievously that others 



have a better memory for his own faults? They are 
but the faults of an author; while the virtues he omit- 
ted from his catalogue are essential to the justice due 
to a man. 

Mr Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptible beyond 
the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedica- 
tion to Mr Gifford, in which he is made responsible for 
ail the articles of the Quarterly. Mr Southey, it seems, 
«the most able and eloquent writer in that Review,» 
approves of Mr Bowles's publication. Now, it seems to 
me the more impartial, that, notwithstanding that the 
great writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions op- 
posite to the able article on Spence, nevertheless that 
essay w r as permitted to appear. Is a review to be de- 
voted to the opinions of any one man ? Must it not 
vary according to circumstances, and according to the 
subjects to be criticised? I fear that writers must take 
the sweets and bitters of the public journals as they 
occur, and an author of so long a standing as Mr Bowles 
might have become accustomed to such incidents ; he 
might be angry, but not astonished. I have been re- 
viewed in the Quarterly almost as often as Mr Bowles, 
and have had as pleasant things said, and some as un- 
pleasant, as could well be pronounced. In the review 
of «The Fall of Jerusalem,)) it is stated that I have de- 
voted «my powers, etc. to the worst parts of mani- 
cheism,)i which, being interpreted, means that I wor- 
ship the devil. Now, I have neither written a reply, nor 
complained to Gifford. I believe that I observed in a 
letter to you, that I thought « that the critic might have 
praised Milman without finding it necessary to abuse 
me;» but did I not add at the same time, or soon after 
(apropos, of the note in the book of Travels), that I 
would not, if it were even in my power, have a single 
line cancelled on my account in that nor in any other 
publication ? — Of course, I reserve to myself the pri- 
vilege of response when necessary. Mr Bowles seems in 
a whimsical state about the article on Spence. You 
know very well that I am not in your confidence, nor 
in that of the conductor of the journal. The moment 
I saw that article, I was morally certain that I knew the 
author « by his style. » You will tell me that I do not 
know him: that is all as it should be; keep the secret, 
so shall I, though no one has ever intrusted it to me. 
He is not the person whom Mr Bowles denounces. Mr 
Bowles's extreme sensibility reminds me of a circum- 
stance which occurred on board of a frigate, in which 
I was a passenger and guest of the captain's, for a con- 
siderable time. The surgeon on board, a very gentle- 
manly young man, and remarkably able in his profes- 
sion, wore a wig. Upon this ornament he was extremely 
tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes a little rough, 
his brother-officers made occasional allusions to this 
delicate appendage to the doctor's person. One day a 
young lieutenant, in the course of a facetious discus- 
sion, said, « Suppose, now, doctor, I should take off 
your hat.* « Sir,» replied the doctor, « I shall talk no 
longer with you; you grow scurrilous.* He would not 
even admit so near an approach as to the hat which 
protected it. In like manner, if any body approaches 
Mr Bowles's laurels, even in his outside capacity of an 
editor, « they grow scurrilous.* You say that you are 
about to prepare an edition of Pope; you cannot do 
better for your own credit as a publisher, nor for the 
redemption of Pope from Mr Bowles, and of the public 
taste from rapid degeneracy. 



552 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ft tfvaQtnmh 



June 17, 1816. 
In the year 17 — , having for some time determined 
on a journey through countries not hitherto much fre- 
quented by travellers, I set out, accompanied by a friend 
whom I shall designate by the name of Augustus Dar- 
vell. He was a few years my elder, and a man of con- 
siderable fortune and ancient family — advantages which 
an extensive capacity prevented him alike from under- 
valuing or overrating. Some peculiar circumstances in 
his private history had rendered him to me an object 
of attention, of interest, and even of regard, which 
neither the reserve of his manners, nor occasional indi- 
cations of an inquietude at times nearly approaching to 
alienation of mind, could extinguish. 

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early; 
but my intimacy with him was of a recent date : we had 
been educated at the same schools and university, but 
his progress through these had preceded mine, and he 
had been deeply initiated into what is called the world, 
while I was yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I 
had heard much both of his past and present life; and, 
although in these accounts there were many and irre- 
concilable contradictions, I could still gather from the 
whole that he was a being of no common order, and 
one who, whatever pains he might take to avoid re- 
mark, would still be remarkable. I had cultivated his 
acquaintance subsequently, and endeavoured to obtain 
his friendship, but this last appeared to be unattainable ; 
whatever affections he might have possessed seemed 
now, some to have been extinguished, and others to be 
concentred: that his feelings were acute, I had suffi- 
cient opportunities of observing; for, although he could 
control, he could not altogether disguise them: still he 
had a power of giving to one passion the appearance of 
another, in such a manner that it was difficult to define 
the nature of what was working within him; and the 
expressions of his features would vary so rapidly, though 
slightly, that it was useless to trace them to their sources. 
It was evident that he was a prey to some cureless dis- 
quiet; but whether it arose from ambition, love, re- 
morse, grief, from one or all of these, or merely from 
a morbid temperament akin to disease, I could not dis- 
cover : there were circumstances alleged which might 
have justified the application to each of these causes ; 
but, as I have before said, these were so contradictory 
and contradicted, that none could be fixed upon with 
accuracy. Where there is mystery, it is generally sup- 
posed that there must also be evil : I know not how this 
may be, but in him there certainly was the one, though 
I could not ascertain the extent of the other — and felt 
loth, as far as regarded himself, to believe in its exist- 
ence. My advances were received with sufficient cold- 
ness ; but I was young, and not easily discouraged, and 
at length succeeded in obtaining, to a certain degree, 
that common-place intercourse and moderate confidence 
of common and every-day concerns, created and ce- 
mented by similarity of pursuit and frequency of meet- 
ing, which is called intimacy, or friendship, according 
to the ideas of him who uses those words to express them. 

Darvell had already travelled extensively, and to him 
I had applied for information with regard to the con- 



duct of my intended journey. It was my secret wish 
that he might be prevailed on to accompany me : it was 
also a probable hope, founded upon the shadowy rest- 
lessness which I had observed in him, and to which the 
animation which he appeared to feel on such subjects, 
and his apparent indifference to all by which he was 
more immediately surrounded, gave fresh strength. 
This wish I first hinted, and then expressed : his answer, 
though I had partly expected it, gave me all the plea- 
sure of surprise — he consented ; and, after the requisite 
arrangements, we commenced our voyages. After jour- 
neying through various countries of the south of Europe, 
our attention was turned towards the East, according 
to our original destination; and it was in my progress 
through those regions that the incident occurred upon 
which will turn what I may have to relate. 

The constitution of Darvell, which must, from his 
appearance, have been in early life more than usually 
robust, had been for some time gradually giving way, 
without the intervention of any apparent disease : he 
had neither cough nor hectic, yet he became daily 
more enfeebled : his habits were temperate, and he 
neither declined nor complained of fatigue, yet he was 
evidently wasting away : he became more and more 
silent and sleepless, and at length so seriously altered, 
that my alarm grew proportionate to what I conceived 
to be his danger. 

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on 
an excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, from 
which I endeavoured to dissuade him, in his present 
state of indisposition — but in vain: there appeared to be 
an oppression on his mind, and a solemnity in his man- 
ner, which ill corresponded with his eagerness to proceed 
on what I regarded as a mere party of pleasure, little 
suited to a valetudinarian; but I opposed him no longer 
— and in a few days we set off together, accompanied 
only by a serrugee and a single janizary. 

We had passed half-way towards the remains of Ephe- 
sus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs of 
Smyrna, and were entering upon that wild and te- 
nantless track through the marshes and defiles which 
lead to the few huts yet lingering over the broken co- 
lumns of Diana — the roofless walls of expelled Christia- 
nity, and the still more recent but complete desolation of 
abandoned mosques — when the sudden and rapid ill- 
ness of my companion obliged us to halt at a Turkish 
cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of which were the 
sole indication that human life had ever been a sojourner 
in this wilderness. The only caravansera we had seen 
was left some hours behind us; not a vestige of a town 
or even cottage, was within sight or hope, and this « city 
of the dead» appeared to be the sole refuge for my un- 
fortunate friend, who seemed on the verge of becoming 
the last of its inhabitants. 

In this situation, I looked round for a place where he 
might most conveniently repose : — contrary to the usual 
aspect of Mahometan burial grounds, the cypresses 
were in this few in number, and these thinly scattered 
over its extent : the tombstones were mostly fallen, and 
worn with age : upon one of the most considerable of 
these, and beneath one of the most spreading trees 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



j j. 



Darvell supported himself, in a half-reclining posture, 
with great difficulty. He asked for water. I had some 
douhts of our being able to find any, and prepared to go 
in search of it with hesitating despondency — but he 
desired me to remain; and turning to Suleiman, our 
janizary, who stood by us smoking with great tranquil- 
lity, he said, « Suleiman, verbana su,» (£. e. bring some 
water,) and went on describing the spot where itwas to 
be found with great minuteness, at a small well for 
camels, a few hundred yards to the right: the janizary 
obeyed. I said to Darvell, « How did you know this?» 
—He replied, « From our situation; you must perceive 
that this place was once inhabited, and could not have 
been so without springs : I have also been here before. » 

« You have been here before ! — How came you never 
to mention this to me? and what could you be doing in 
a place where no one would remain a moment longer 
than they could help it?» 

To this question I received no answer. In the mean- 
time , Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser- 
rugee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching of 
his thirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mo- 
ment; and I conceived hopes of his being able to pro- 
ceed, or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. I!e 
was silent — and appeared to be collecting his spirits for 
an effort to speak. He began. 

« This is the end of my journey, and of my life — I 
came here to die : but I have a request to make, a 
command — for such my last words must be. — You wiii 
observe it ?» 

« Most certainly; but have better hopes.» 

« I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this — conceal my 
death from every human being.^ 

« I hope there will be no occasion; that you will re- 
cover, and » 

« Peace ! it must be so : promise this.» 

« I do.» 

« Swear it by all that» He here dictated an oath 

of great solemnity. 

« There is no occasion for this — I will observe your 
request ; — and to doubt me is » 

« It cannot be helped, — you must swear. » 

I took the oath : it appeared to relieve him. He re- 
moved a seal-ring from his finger, on which were some 
Arabic characters, and presented it to me. He pro- 
ceeded — 

« On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely 
(what month you please, but this must be the day), you 
must fling this ring into the salt springs which run into 
the Bay of Eleusis : the day after, at the same hour, you 
must repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and 
wait one hour.» 



« Why?» 

« You will see.» 

« The ninth day of the month, you say?» 

« The ninlii.» 

As I observed that the present was the ninth day of the 
month, his countenance changed, and he paused. Ashe 
sate, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with a 
snake in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us; 
and, without devouring her prey, appeared to be sted- 
fastly regarding us. I know not what impelled me to 
drive it away, but the attempt was useless; she made a 
few circles in the air, and returned exactly to the same 
spot. Darvell pointed to it, and smiled : he spoke — I 
know not whether to himself or to me — but the words 
were only, « 'T is we!l!» 

« What is well? Avhat do you mean ?» 

« No matter: you must bury me here this evening, 
and exactly where that bird is now perched. You know 
the rest of my injunctions." 

He then proceeded to give me several directions as to 
the manner in which his death might be best concealed. 
After these were finished, he exclaimed, «You perceive 
that bird ? » 

« Ccrtainly.» 

« And the serpent writhing in her beak?» 

« Doubtless : there is nothing uncommon in it; it is 
her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not devour 
it.» 

He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, faintly, « It 
is not yet time !» As he spoke, the stork flew away. 
My eyes followed it for a moment; it could hardly be 
longer than ten might be counted. I felt Darvell's 
weight, as it were, increase upon my shoulder, and, 
turning to look upon his face, perceived that he was 
dead ! 

I was shocked with the sudden certainty which could 
not be mistaken — his countenance in a few minutes 
became nearly black. I should have attributed so rapid 
a change to poison, had I not been aware that he had 
no opportunity of receiving it uuperceived. The day 
was declining, the body was rapidly altering, and 
nothing remained but to fulfil his request. With the 
aid of Suleiman's ataghanand my own sabre, we scooped 
a shallow grave upon the spot which Darvell had indi- 
cated : the earth easily gave way, having already received 
some Mahometau tenant. We dug as deeply as the 
time permitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon alj 
that remained of the singular being so lately departed, 
we cut a few sods of greener turf from the less withered 
soil around us, and laid them upon his sepulchre. 

Between astonishment and grief, I was tearless. 



W&vliamtntavn g>mwtw$. 



DEBATE ON THE FBAME WORK BILL, IN THE HOUSE 
OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 18 12. 

The order of the day for the second reading of this 
bill being read. 

LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) addressed 
their lordships, as follows : 



My Lords — The subject now submitted to your lord- 
ships for the first time, though new to the House, is by- 
no means new to the country. I believe it had occu- 
pied the serious thoughts of all descriptions of persons, 
long before its introduction to the notice of that legis- 
lature, whose interference alone could be of real ser- 
vice. As a person in some degree connected with the 

70 






554 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



suffering county, though a stranger not only to this 
House in general, hut to almost every individual whose 
attention I presume to solicit, I must claim some por- 
tion of your lordships' indulgence whilst I offer a few 
observations on a question in which I confess myself 
deeply interested. 

To enter into any detail of the riots would be super- 
fluous : the House is already aware that every outrage 
short of actual bloodshed has been perpetrated, and 
that the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the 
rioters, and all persons supposed to be connected 
■with them, have been liable to insult and violence. 
During the short time I recently passed in Nottingham- 
shire, not twelve hours elapsed without some fresh act 
of violence ; and on the day I left the county, I was in- 
formed that forty frames had been broken the preceding 
evening, — as usual, without resistance and without de- 
tection. 

Such was then the state of that county, and such I 
have reason to believe it to be at this moment. But 
whilst these outrages must be admitted to exist to an 
alarming extent, it cannot be denied that they have 
arisen from circumstances of the most unparalleled 
distress. The perseverance of these miserable men in 
their proceedings, tends to prove that nothing but abso- 
lute want could have driven a large, and once honest 
and industrious, body of the people, into the commission 
of excesses so hazardous to themselves, their families, 
and the community. At the time to which I allude, 
the town andcouutey were burthened with large detach- 
ments of the military; the police was in motion; the 
magistrates assembled; yet all the movements, civil and 
military, had led to — nothing. Not a single instance 
had occurred of the apprehension of any real delinquent 
actually taken in the fact, against whom there existed 
legal evidence sufficient for conviction. But the police, 
however useless, were by no means idle : several noto- 
rious delinquents had been detected; men, liable to 
conviction, on the clearest evidence, of the capital crime 
of poverty; men who had been nefariously guilty of 
lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks to 
the times ! they were unable to maintain. Considerable 
injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved 
frames. These machines were to them an advantage, 
inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing 
a number of workmen, who were left in consequence 
to starve. By the adoption of one species of frame in 
particular, one man performed the work of many, and 
the superfluous labourers were thrown out of employ- 
ment. Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus 
executed was inferior in quality; not marketable at 
home, and merely hurried over with a view to exporta- 
tion. It was called, in the cant of the trade, by the 
name of « spider- work.» The rejected workmen, in 
the blindness of their ignorance, instead of rejoicing at 
these improvements in arts so beneficial to mankind, 
conceived themselves to be sacrificed to improvements 
in mechanism. In the foolishness of their hearts they 
imagined, that the maintenance and well-doing of the 
industrious poor were objects of greater consequence 
than the enrichment of a few individuals by any im- 
provement, in the implements of trade, which threw 
the workmen out of employment, and rendered the 
labourer unworthy of his hire. And it must be con- 
fessed, that although the adoption of the enlarged ma- 



chinery, in that state of our commerce which the coun- 
try once boasted, might have been beneficial to the 
master without being detrimental to the servant; yet 
in the present situation of our manufactures, rotting in 
warehouses, without a prospect of exportation, with 
the demand for work and workmen equally diminished, 
frames of this description tend materially to aggravate 
the distress and discontent of the disappointed sufferers. 
But the real cause of these distresses and consequent 
disturbances lies deeper. When we are told that these 
men are leagued together, not only for the destruction 
of their own comfort, but of their very means of sub- 
sistence, can we forget thai it is the bitter policy, the 
destructive warfare of the last eighteen years, which 
has destroyed their comfort, your comfort, all men's 
comfort ? that policy which, originating with « great 
statesmen now no more,» has survived the dead to be- 
come a curse on the living, unto the third and fourth 
geueration ! These men never destroyed their looms 
till they were become useless, worse than useless; till 
they were become actual impediments to their exertions 
in obtaining their daily bread. Can you, then, wonder 
that, in times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted 
fraud, and imputed felony, are found in a station not 
far beneath that of your lordships, the lowest, though 
once most useful portion of the people, should forget 
their duty in their distresses, and become only less 
guilty than one of their representatives? But while the 
exalted offender can find means to baffle the law, new 
capital punishments must be devised, new snares of 
death must be spread for the wretched mechanic, who 
is famished into guilt. These men were willing to dig, 
but the spade was in other hands : they were not 
ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them : 
their own means of subsistence were cut off, all other 
employments pre-occupied, and their excesses, however 
to be deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject of 
surprise. 

It has been stated, that the persons in the temporary 
possession of frames connive at their destruction; if 
this be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such 
material accessories to the crime should be principals 
in the punishment. But I did hope, that any measure 
proposed by his majesty's government, for your lord- 
ships' decision, would have had conciliation for its basis; 
or, if that were hopeless, that some previous inquiry, 
some deliberation would have been deemed requisite; 
not that we should have been called at once with- 
out examination, and without cause, to pass sentences 
by wholesale, and sign death-warrants blindfold. But 
admitting that these men had no cause of complaint; 
that the grievances of them and their employers were 
alike groundless ; that they deserved the worst ; what 
inefficiency, what imbecility has been evinced in the 
method chosen to reduce them! Why were the military 
called out to be made a mockery of, if they were to be 
called out at all? As far as the difference of seasons 
would permit, they have merely parodied the summer 
campaign of Major Sturgeon; and, indeed, the whole 
proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the model of 
those of the Mayor and Corporation of Garratt. — Such 
marchings and counter-marchings! from Nottingham 
to Bullwell, from Bullwell to Banford, from Banford to 
Mansfield ! and when at length the detachments arrived 
at their destinations, in all « the pride, pomp, and cir- 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



555 



curastance of glorious war,» they came just in time to 
witness the mischief which haclheen done, and ascertain 
the escape of the perpetrators; to collect the « spolia 
opiman in the fragments of brokeu frames, and return 
to their quarters amidst the derision of old women, and 
the hootiags of children. Now, though in a free country, 
it were to be wished, that our military should never be too 
formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see the policy of 
placing them in situations where they can only be made 
ridiculous. As the sword is the worst argument that can be 
used, so should it be the last. In this instance it has 
been the first; but providentially as yet only in the 
scabbard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it 
from the sheath; yet had proper meetings been held in 
the earlier stages of these riots, — had the grievances of 
these men and their masters (for they also had their 
grievances) been fairly weighed and justly examined, I 
do think that means might have been devised to restore 
these workmen to their avocations, and tranquillity to 
the couuty. At present the county suffers from the 
double infliction of an idle military and a starving 
population. In what state of apathy have we been 
plunged so long, that now for the first time the House 
has been officially apprised of these disturbances! All 
this has been transacting within i3o miles of London, 
and yet we, « good easy men, have deemed full sure 
our greatness was a-ripening,» and have sat down to 
enjoy our foreign triumphs iu the midst of domestic 
calamity. But all the cities you have taken, all the 
armies which have retreated before your leaders, are 
but paltry subjects of self-congratulation, if your land 
divides against itself, and your dragoons and your 
executioners must be let loose agaiust your fellow-citi- 
zens. — You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, 
and ignorant; and seem to think that the only way to 
quiet the « Bellua multorum capitunm is to lop off a 
few of its superfluous heads, hut even a mob may 
be better reduced to reason by a mixture of concilia- 
tion and firmness, than by additional irritation and re- 
doubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations 
to a mob! It is the mob that labour in your fields, and 
serve in your houses, — that man your navy, and recruit 
your army, — that have enabled you to defy all the 
world, and can also defy you when neglect and ca- 
lamity have driven them to despair. You may call the 
people a mob ; but do not forget, that a mob too often 
speaks the sentiments of the people. And here 1 
must remark, Avith what alacrity you are accustomed 
to fly to the succour of your distressed allies, leaving 
the distressed of your own country to the care of Pro- 
vidence or — the parish. When the Portuguese suffered 
under the retreat of the French, every arm was stretch- 
ed out, every hand was opened, from the rich man's 
largess to the widow's mite, all was bestowed to enable 
them to rebuild their villages and replenish their gra- 
naries. And at this moment, when thousands of mis- 
guided but most unfortunate fellow-countrymen are 
struggling with the extremes of hardships and hunger, 
as your charity began abroad it should end at home. 
A much less sum, a tithe of the bounty bestowed on 
Portugal, even if those men (which I cannot admit 
without inquiry) could not have been restored to their 
employments, would have rendered unnecessary the 
tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But 
doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims to 
admit a prospect of domestic relief ; though never did 



such objects demand it. I have traversed the seat of 
war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most 
oppressed provinces of Turkey, but never under the 
most despotic of infidel governments did I behold 
such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my re- 
turn, in the very heart of a Christian country. And 
what are your remedies? After months of inaction, 
and months of action worse than inactivity, at length 
comes forth the grand specific, the never-failing nos- 
trum of all state-physicians, from the days of Draco to 
the present time. After feeling the pulse and shaking 
the head over the patient, prescribing the usual course 
of warm water and bleeding, the warm water of your 
maukish police, and the lancets of your military, these 
convulsions must terminate in death, the sure con- 
summation of the prescriptions of all political Sangra- 
dos. Setting aside the palpable injustice, and the 
certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital 
punishments sufficient in your statutes ? Is there not 
blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be 
poured forth to ascend to [Heaven and testify against 
you? How will you carry the bill into effect? Can 
you commit a whole county to their own prison ? 
Will you erect a gibbet in every field, and hang up men 
like scarecrows ? or will you proceed (as you must to 
bring this measure into effect) by decimation ? place 
the country under martial law? depopulate and lay 
waste all around you ? and restore Sherwood Forest 
as an acceptable gift to the crown, in its former condi- 
tion of a royal chase and an asyium for outlaws ? Are 
these the remedies for a starving and desperate popu- 
lace ? Will the famished wretch who has braved your 
bayonets be appalled by your gibbets? When death 
is a relief, and the only relief it appears that you will 
afford him, will he be dragooned into tranquillity ? 
Will that which could not be effected by your grena- 
diers be accomplished by your executioners ? If you 
proceed by the forms of law, where is your evidence ? 
Those who have refused to impeach their accomplices, 
when transportation only was the punishment, will 
hardly be tempted to witness against them when death 
is the penalty. With all due deference to the noble 
lords opposite, I think a little investigation, some pre- 
vious inquiry, would induce even them to chauge their 
purpose. That most favourite state measure, so mar- 
vellously efficacious in many and recent instances, 
temporising, would not be without its advantages in 
this. When a proposal is made to emancipate or re- 
lieve, you hesitate, you deliberate for years, you tempo- 
rize and tamper with the minds of men; but a death- 
bill must be passed off hand, without a thought of the 
consequences. Sure I am, from what I have heard, 
and from what I have seen, that to pass the Bill 
under all the existing circumstances without inquiry, 
without deliberation, would only be to add injustice 
to irritation, and barbarity to neglect. The framers 
of such a Bill must be content to inherit the honours 
of that Athenian lawgiver, whose edicts were said 
to be written not in ink but in blood. But suppose 
it passed; suppose one of these men, as I have seen 
them, — meagre with famine, sullen with despair, care- 
less of a life which your Lordships are perhaps about 
to value at something less than the price of a stocking- 
frame — suppose this man surrounded by the chil- 
dren for whom he is unable to procure bread at 
the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever 



556 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



from a family which he lately supported in peaceful in- 
dustry, and which it is not his fault that he can no 
longer so support — suppose this man, and there are 
ten thousand such from whom you may select your 
victims, dragged into court, to he tried for this new 
offence by this new law ; still, there are two things 
wanting to convict and condemn him ; and these are, 
in my opinion, — twelve Butchers for a Jury, and a Jef- 
feries for a Judge! 



DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORE'S 
MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE ROMAN 
CATHOLIC CLAIMS, APRIL 21, 1812. 

My Lords — The question before the House has been 
so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never 
perhaps more ably than on this night, that it would 
be difficult to adduce new arguments for or against it. 
But with each discussion difficulties have been remov- 
ed, objections have been canvassed and refuted, and some 
of the former opponents of Catholic Emancipation have 
at length conceded to the expediency of relieving the 
petitioners. In conceding thus much, however, a new 
objection is started; it is not the time, say they, or it is 
an improper time, or there is time enough yet. In some 
degree I concur with those who say it is net the time 
exactly; that time is passed; better had it been for 
the country, that the Catholics possessed at this moment 
their proportion of our privileges, that their nobles 
held their due weight in our councils, than that we 
should be assembled to discuss their claims. It had in- 
deed been better 

Non tempore tali 
Cogere concilium cum muros obsidet hostis. 

The enemy is without, and distress within. It is too late 
to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in de- 
fence of things more important than the mere ceremo- 
nies of religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called 
together to deliberate, not on the God we adore, for in 
that we are agreed; not about the king we obey, for to 
him we are loyal; but how far a difference in the ce- 
remonials of worship, how far believing, not too little, 
but too much (the worst that can be imputed to the 
Catholics), how far too much devotion to their God, may 
incapacitate our fellow-subjects from effectually serving 
their king. 

Much has been said, within and without doors, of 
Church and State, and although those venerable words 
have been too often prostituted to the most despica- 
ble of party purposes, we cannot hear them too often : 
all, I presume, are the advocates of Church and State, 
the Church of Christ, and the State of Great Britain ; 
but not a state of exclusion and despotism, not an in- 
tolerant church, not a church militant, which renders 
itself liable to the very objection urged against the 
Romish communion, and in a greater degree, for the 
Catholic merely withholds its spiritual benediction 
(and even that is doubtful); but our church, or rather 
our churchmen, not only refuse to the Catholic their 
spiritual grace, but all temporal blessings whatsoever. 
It was an observation of the great Lord Peterborough, 
made within these walls, or within the walls where the 
Lords then assembled, that he was for a « parliamentary 
king and a parliamentary constitution, but not a 
parliamentary God and a parliamentary religion. » 



The interval of a century has not weakeed the force 
of the remark. It is indeed time that we should leave 
off these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Lilli- 
putian sophistries, whether our « eggs are best broken 
at the broad or narrow end.» 

The opponents of the Catholics may be divided into 
two classes ; those who assert that the Catholics have 
too much already, and those who allege that the lower 
orders, at least, have nothing more to require. We are 
told by the former, that the Catholics never will be 
contented: by the latter, that they are already too happy. 
The last paradox is sufficiently refuted by the present, 
as by all past petitions; it might as well be said, that 
the negroes did not desire to be emancipated, but this 
is an unfortunate comparison, for you have already de- 
livered them out of the house of bondage without any 
petition on their part, but many from their task-masters 
to a contrary effect; and for myself, when I consider 
this, I pity the Catholic peasantry for not having the 
good fortune to be born black. But the Catholics are 
contented, or at least ought to be, as we are told : I shall 
therefore proceed to touch on a few of those circum- 
stances which so marvellously contribute to their ex- 
ceeding contentment. They are not allowed the free 
exercise of their religion in the regular army; the Ca- 
tholic soldier cannot absent himself from the service of 
the Protestant clergyman, and, unless he is quartered in 
Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligible oppor- 
tunities of attending his own? The permission of Ca- 
tholic chaplains to the Trish militia regiments was con- 
ceded as a special favour, and not till after years of 
remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, esta- 
blished it as a right. But are the Catholics properly 
protected in Ireland? Can the Church purchase a rood 
of land whereon to erect a chapel ? No ; all the places 
of worship are built on leases of trust or sufferance from 
the laity, easily broken and often betrayed. The moment 
any irregular wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent 
landlord meets with opposition, the doors are barred 
against the congregation. This has happened continually; 
but in no instance more glaringly, than at the town of 
Newtown-Barry, in the county of Wexford. The Catholics, 
enjoying no regular chapel, as a temporary expedient, 
hired two barns, which, being thrown into one, served 
for public worship. At this time, there was quartered 
opposite to the spot an officer, whose mind appears to 
have been deeply imbued with those prejudices which 
the Protestant petitions, now on the table, prove to 
have been fortunately eradicated from the more rational 
portion of the people; and when the Catholics were 
assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in peace and good- 
will towards men, for the worship of their God and 
yours, they found the chapel door closed, and were 
told that if they did not immediately retire (and they 
were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate), 
the riot act should be read, and the assembly dispersed 
at the point of the bayonet ! This was complained of to 
the middle-man of government, the Secretary at the 
Castle in 1806, and the answer was (in lieu of redress), 
that he would cause a letter to be written to the colonel, 
to prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar dis- 
turbances. Upon this fact, no very great stress need be 
laid; but it tends to prove that while the Catholic church 
has not power to purchase land for its chapels to stand 
upon, the laws for its protection are of no avail. In the 
meantime, die Catholics are at the mercy of every 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



55 7 



« pelting petty officer," who may chuse to play his « fan- 
tastic tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, and 
injure his fellow-creatures. 

Every school-boy, any foot-boy (such have held com- 
missions in our service), any foot-boy who can exchange 
liis shoulder-knot for an epaulet, may perform all this 
and more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very 
authority delegated to him by his sovereign, for the 
express purpose of defending his fellow-subjects to the 
last drop of his blood, without discrimination or dis- 
tinction between Catholic and Protestant. 

Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by 
jury? They have not,- they never can have, until they 
are permitted to share the privilege of serving as she- 
riffs and under-sheriffs. Of this a striking example oc- 
curred at the last Enniskillen assizes. A yeoman was 
arraigned for the murder of a Catholic named Mac- 
vournagh : three respectable uncontradicted witnesses 
deposed that they saw the prisoner load, take aim, fire 
at, and kill the said Macvournagh. This was properly 
commented on by the judge ; but, to the astonishment 
of the bar, and indignation of the court, the Protestant 
jury acquitted the accused. So glaring was the partia- 
lity, that Mr Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind 
over the acquitted, but not absolved assassin, in large 
recognizances : thus for a time taking away his license 
to kill Catholics. 

Are the very laws passed in their favour observed? 
They are rendered nugatory, in trivial as in serious cases. 
By a late act, Catholic chaplains are permitted in jails, 
but in Fermanagh county the grand jury lately persisted 
in presenting a suspended clergyman for the office: 
thereby evading the statue, notwithstanding the most 
pressing remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate, 
named Fletcher, to the contrary. Such is law, such is 
justice, for the happy, free, contented Catholic! 

It has been asked in another place, why do not the 
rich Catholics endow foundations for the education of 
the priesthood ? Why do you not permit them to do so ? 
Why are all such bequests subject to the interference, 
the vexatious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the 
Orange commissioners for charitable donations? 

As to Maynooth College, in no instance, except at the 
time of its foundation, when a noble Lord (Camden), at 
the head of the Irish administration, did appear to in- 
terest himself in its advancement; and during the go- 
vernment of a noble Duke (Bedford), who, like his 
ancestors, has ever been the friend of freedom and 
mankind, and who has not so far adopted the selfish 
policy of the day as to exclude the Catholics from the 
number of his fellow-creatures; with these exceptions, 
in no instance has that institution been properly encou- 
raged. There was indeed a time when the Catholic 
clergy were conciliated, while the Union was pendiug, 
that union which could not be carried without them, 
while their assistance was requisite in procuring ad- 
dresses from the Catholic counties; then they were 
cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and given to 
understand that « the Union would do every thing ; » 
but, the moment it was passed, they were driven back 
with contempt into their former obscurity. 

In the conduct pursued towards Maynooth College, 
every thing is done to irritate and perplex — every thing 
is done to efface the slightest impression of gratitude 
from the Catholic mind ; the very hay made upon the 
lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed. 



must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, 
this economy in miniature cannot be sufficiently com- 
mended, particularly at a time when only the insect 
defaulters of the Treasury, your Hunts and your 
Chinnerys, when only these « gilded bugs» can escape 
the microscopic eye of ministers. But when you come 
forward, session after session, as your paltry pittance is 
wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, to 
boast of your liberality, well might the Catholic exclaim, 
in the words of Prior, — 

To John I owe some obligation, 

But Julia unluckily thinks fit 
To publish it to all the nation, 

So John and I are more than quit. 

Some persons have compared the Catholics to the 
beggar in Gil Bias. Who made them beggars? Who are 
enriched with the spoils of their ancestors? And cannot 
you relieve the beggar, when your fathers have made 
him such? If you are disposed to relieve him at all, 
cannot you do it without flinging your farthings in his 
face? As a contrast, however, to this beggarly bene- 
volence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools; 
to them you have lately granted 4i,oool. : thus are they 
supported, and how are they recruited? Montesquieu 
observes, on the English constitution, that the model 
may be found in Tacitus, where the historian describes 
the policy of the Germans, and adds, « this beautiful 
system was taken from the woods ; » so in speaking of 
the charter schools, it may be observed, that this beau- 
tiful system was taken from the gypsies. These schools 
are recruited in the same manner as the Janizaries at 
the time of their enrolment under Amurath, and the 
gypsies of the present day, with stolen children, with 
children decoyed and kidnapped from their Catholic 
connexions by their rich and powerful Protestant neigh- 
bours : this is notorious, and one instance may suffice 
to show in what manner. The sister of a Mr Carthy (a 
Catholic gentleman of very considerable property) died, 
leaving two girls, who were immediately marked out as 
proselytes, and conveyed to the charter-school of Cool- 
greny. Their uncle, on being apprised of the fact, which 
took place during his absence, applied for the restitution 
of his nieces, offering to settle an independence on 
these relations; his request was refused, and not till 
after five years' struggle, and the interference of very 
high authority, could this Catholic gentleman obtain 
back his nearest of kindred from a charity charter- 
school. In this manner are proselytes obtained, and 
mingled with the offspring of such Protestants as may 
avail themselves of the institution. And how are they 
taught? A catechism is put into their hands consisting 
of, I believe, forty-five pages, in which are three ques- 
tions relative to the Protestant religion; one of these 
queries is, « Where was the Protestant religion before 
Luther?» Answer, «In the Gospel. » The remaining 
forty-four pages and a half regard the damnable ido- 
latry of Papists ! 

Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, is 
this training up a child in the way which he should go ? 
Is this the religion of the gospel before the time of 
Luther ? that religion which preaches « Peace on earth, 
and glory to God?» Is it bringing up infants to be men 
or devils? Better would it be to send them any where 
than teach them such doctrines; better send them to 
those islands in the South Seas, where they might more 






558 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



humanely learn to become cannibals; it would be less 
disgusting that they were brought up to devour the 
dead, than persecute the living. Schools do you call 
them? call them rather dunghills, where the viper of 
intolerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth 
arc cut and their poison is mature, they may issue forth, 
lilthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are 
these the doctrines of the Church of England, or o? 
churchmen? No; the most enlightened churchmen are 
of a different opinion. What says Paley? «I perceive 
no reason why men of different religious persuasions, 
should not sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the 
same council, or fight in the same ranks, as well as men 
of various religious opinions, upon any controverted 
topic of natural history, philosophy, or ethics." It may 
be answered that Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I 
know nothing of his orthodoxy, but who will deny that 
he was an ornament to the church, to human nature, 
to Christianity? 

I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
severely felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper to 
observe that there is an addition to the burthen, a per 
centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes 
to rate them as highly as possible; and we know that in 
many large livings in Ireland, the only resident Pro- 
testants are the tithe proctor and his family. 

Among many causes of irritation, too numerous for 
recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be 
passed over, I mean the existence of Orange lodges 
amongst the privates : can the officers deny this ? And 
if such lodges do exist, do they, can they tend to pro- 
mote harmony amongst the men, who are thus indi- 
vidually separated in society, although mingled in the 
ranks? And is this general system of persecution to be 
permitted, or is it to be believed that with such a system 
the Catholics can or ought to be contented? If they arc, 
they belie human nature; they are then, indeed, un- 
worthy to be any thing but the slaves you have made 
them. The facts stated are from most respectable au- 
thority, or I should not have dared in this place, or any 
place, to hazard this avowal. If exaggerated, there are 
plenty, as willing as I believe them to be unable, to 
disprove them. Should it be objected that I never was 
in Ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it is as easy to 
know something of Ireland without having been there, 
as it appears with some to have becu born, bred and 
cherished there, and yet remain ignorant of its best 
interests. 

But there are, who assert that the Catholics have 
already been too much indulged! See (cry they) what 
has been done : we have given them one entire college, 
we allow them food and raiment, the full enjoyment of 
the elements, and leave to fight for us as long as they 
have limbs and lives to offer ; and yet they are never to 
be satisfied ! Generous and just dcclaimers! To this, 
and to this only, amounts the whole of your arguments, 
when stript of their sophistry. These personages re- 
mind me of the story of a certain drummer, who being 
called upon in the course of duty to administer puuish- 
ment to a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to 
dog high ; he did — to flog low, he did — to flog ia the 
middle, he did — high, low, down the middle, and up 
again, but all in vain, the patient continued his com- 
plaints with the most provoking pertinacity, until the 
drummer, exhausted and angry, flung down his scourge, 
exclaiming, « the devil burn you, there's no pleasing 



you, flog where one will!» Thus it is; you have 
the Catholic, high, low, here, there and every where, 
and then you wonder he is not pleased. It is true, that 
time, experience, and that weariness which attends 
even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you to flog 
a little more gently, but still you continue to lay on the 
lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may be 
wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs of 
yourselves and your posterity. 

It was said by somebody in a former debate (I forget 
by whom, and am not very anxious to remember), if 
the Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews? If 
this sentiment was dictated by compassion for the Jews, 
it might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the 
Catholic, what is it but the language of Shylock trans- 
ferred from his daughter's marriage to Catholic eman- 
cipation? — 

Would any of the tribe of Barrabbas 
Should have it rather than a Christian. 

I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opi- 
nion of him whose taste only can be called in question 
for his preference of the Jews. 

It is a remark often quoted of Dr Johnson (whom I 
take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle 
of intolerance, Dr Duigenan), that he who could enter- 
tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in 
these times, would have « cried fire in the deluge. » 
This is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these 
antediluvians appear actually to have come down to us, 
with lire in their mouths and water in their brains, to 
disturb and perplex mankind with their whimsical out- 
cries. And as it is an infallible symptom of that dis- 
tressing malady with which I conceive them to be 
affiicted (so any doctor will inform your Lordships) for 
the unhappy invalids to perceive a llame perpetually 
flashing before their eyes, particularly when their eyes 
are shut (as those of the persons to whom I allude have 
long been), it is impossible to convince these poor crea- 
tures, that the fire against which they are perpetually 
warning us and themselves, is nothing but an ignis 
fatuus of their own drivelling imaginations. What 
rhubarb, senna, or «what purgative drug can scour 
that fancy thence ?» — It is impossible : ihey are given 
over, theirs is the true 

Caput insanabile tribus Anticyrls. 

These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- 
tested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest 
against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- 
dress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and 
common sense, can urge against the delusions of their. 
absurd delirium. These are the persons who reverse 
the fable of the mountain that brought forth a mouse, 
they are the mice who conceive themselves in labour 
with mountains. 

To return to the Catholics, suppose the Irish were 
actually contented under their disabilities, suppose them 
capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought 
we not to wish it for ourselves? Have we nothing to 
gain by their emancipation ? What resources have been 
wasted, what talents have been lost, by the selfish 
system of exclusion ! You already know the value of 
Irish aid; at this moment the defence of England is 
intrusted to the Irish militia; at this moment, while 
the starving people are rising in the fierceness of de- 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



55 9 



spair, the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal 
energy is imparted throughout hy the extension of free- 
dom, you cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength 
which you are glad to iuterpose between you and de- 
struction. Ireland has done much, but will do more. 
At this moment the only triumph obtained through 
long years of continental disaster has been achieved 
by an Irish general; it is true he is not a Catholic; had 
he been so, we should have been deprived of his exer- 
tions ; but I presume no one will assert that his religion 
would have impaired his talents, or diminished his pa- 
triotism, though in that case he must have conquered 
in the ranks, for he never could have commanded an 
army. 

But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics 
abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated 
their cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depre- 
ciate by the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a 
third of his kindred, as unlike as unequal, has been 
combating against his catholic brethren in Dublin, with 
circular letters, edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dis- 
persions — all the vexatious implements of petty war- 
fare that could be wielded by the mercenary guerillas 
of government, clad in the rusty armour of their obso- 
lete statutes. Your lordships will doubtless, divide new 
honours between the saviour of Portugal, and the dis- 
penser of delegates. It is singular, indeed, to observe 
the difference between our foreign and domestic poli- 
cy; if Catholic Spain, faithful Portugal, or the no less 
Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily (of which, 
by the by, you have lately deprived him), stand in 
need of succour, away goes a fleet and an army, an 
ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight pretty 
hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and always 
to pay very dearly for our Popish allies. But let four 
millions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who fight 
and pay and labour in your behalf, they must be treated 
as aliens, and although their « father's house has many 
mansions," there is no resting-place for them. Allow 
me to ask, are you not fighting for the emancipation 
of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, and 
consequently, in all probability, a bigot; and have you 
more regard for a foreign sovereign than your own 
fellow-subjects, who are not fools, for they know your 
interest better than you know your own; who are not 
bigots for they return you good for evil; but who are 
in worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inas- 
much as the fetters of the mind are more galling than 
those of the body. 

Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the 
claims of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate; you 
know them, you will feel them, and your children's 
children when you are passed away. Adieu to that 
Union so called, as «Lucusa noti lnceudo,» a Union 
from never uniting, which, in its first operation, gave 
a death-blow to the independence of Ireland, and in 
its last may be the cause of her eternal separation from 
this country. If it must be called a Union, it is the 
union of the shark with his prey; the spoiler swallows 
up his victim, and thus they become one and indivi- 
sible. Thus has Great Britain swallowed up the par- 
liament, the constitution, the independence of Ireland, 
and refuses to disgorge even a single privilege, although 
for the relief of her swollen and distempered body 
politic. 

And now, my lords, before I sit down, will his ma- 



jesty's ministers permit me to say a few words, not on 
their merits, for that would be superfluous, but on the 
degree of estimation in which they are held by the 
people of these realms. The esteem in which they are 
held has been boasted of in a triumphant tone on a 
late occasion within these walls, and a comparison in- 
stituted between their conduct, and that of noble lords 
on this side of the house. 

What portion of popularity may have fallen to the 
share of my noble friends (if such 1 may presume to 
call them), I shall not pretend to ascertain; but that 
of his majesty's ministers it were vain to deny. It is, to 
be sure, a little like the wind, «no one knows whence 
it cometh or whither it goeth,« but they feel it, they 
enjoy it, they boast of it. Indeed, modest and unos- 
tentatious as they are, to what part of the kingdom, 
even the most remote, can they flee to avoid the tri- 
umph which pursues them? If they plunge into the 
midland counties, there they will be greeted by the 
manufacturers with spurned petitions in their hands, 
and those halters round their necks recently voted in 
their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads of those 
who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to remove 
them from their miseries in this to a better world. If 
they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny 
Groat's, every where will they receive similar marks of 
approbation. If they take a trip from Portpatrick to 
Donaghadee, there will they rush at once into the em- 
braces of four Catholic millions, to whom their vole 
of this night is about to endear them for ever. When 
they return to the metropolis, if they can pass under 
Temple Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sight 
of the greedy niches over that ominous gateway, they 
cannot escape the acclamations of the livery, and the 
more tremulous, but not less sincere applause, the bless- 
ings, «not loud but deep» of bankrupt merchants and 
doubting stock-holders. If they look to the army, 
what wreaths, not of laurel, but of night-shade, are 
preparing for the heroes of Walchercn ! It is true, there 
are few living deponents left to testify to their merits 
on that occasion; but a « cloud of witnesses)) are gone 
above from that gallant army which they so generously 
and piously dispatched, to recruit the « noble army of 
martyrs.» 

What if, in the course of this triumphal career(in which 
they will gather as many pebbles as Caligula's army did on 
a similar triumph, the prototype of their own), they do 
not perceive any of those memorials which a grateful 
people erect in honour of their benefactors ; what al- 
though not even a sign-post will condescend to depose 
the Saracen's head in favour of the likeness of the 
conquerors of Walcheren, they will not want a picture 
who can always have a caricature ; or regret the omis- 
sion of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted 
in effigy. But their popularity is not limited to the 
narrow bounds of an island ; there are other countries 
where their measures, and, above all, their conduct to 
the Catholics, must render them pre-eminently popular. 
If they are beloved here, in France they must be adored. 
There is no measure more repugnant to the designs and 
feelings of Bonaparte than Catholic emancipation; no 
line of conduct more propitious to his projects, than 
that which has been pursued, is pursuing, and, I fear, 
will be pursued, towards Ireland. What is England 
without Ireland, and what is Ireland without the Ca- 
tholics ? It is on the basis of your tyranny Napoleon 



5(Jo 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



hopes to build his own. So grateful must oppression 
of the Catholics be to his mind, that doubtless (as he 
has lately permitted some renewal of intercourse) the 
next cartel will convey to this country cargoes of Sevres 
china and blue ribands (things in great request, and of 
equal value at this moment), blue ribands of the legion 
of honour for DrDuigenan and his ministerial disciples. 
Such is that well-earned popularity, the result of those 
extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to ourselves, 
and so useless to our allies; of those singular enquiries, 
so exculpatory to the accused, and so dissatisfactory to 
the people ; of those paradoxical victories, so honour- 
able, as we are told, to the British name, and so destruct- 
ive to the best interests of the British nation : above 
all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by minis- 
ters towards the Catholics. 

I have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, 
pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon 
their indulgence, for so long attempting to engage their 
attention. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will 
be, in favour of the motion. 



DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHTS PETITION, 

JUNE i, i8i3. 

LORD BYRON rose and said : 

My Lords, the petition which I now hold for the 
purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I 
humbly conceive requires the particular attention of 
your lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a 
single individual, it contains statements which (if not 
disproved) demand most serious investigation. The 
grievance of which the petitioner complains is neither 
selfish nor imaginary. It is not his own only, for it 
has been, and is still felt by numbers. No one with- 
out these walls, nor indeed within, but may to-morrow 
be made liable to the same insult and obstruction, in the 
discharge of an imperious duty for the restoration of the 
true constitution of these realms by petitioning for re- 
form in parliament. The petitioner, my lords, is a man 
whose long life has been spent in one unceasing struggle 
for the liberty of the subject, against that undue influ- 
ence which has increased, is increasing, and ouyht to be 
diminished; and, whatever difference of opinion may 
exist as to his political tenets, few will be found to 
question the integrity of his intentions. Even now 
oppressed with years, and not exempt from the infir- 
mities attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in ta- 
lent, and unshaken in spirit — «frangas non fleetest — 
he has received many a wound in the combat against 
corruption ; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of 
which he complains, may indict another scar, but no 
dishonour. The petition is signed by John Cartwright ; 
and it was in behalf of the people and parliament, in 
the lawful pursuit of that reform in the representation 
which is the best service to be rendered both to parlia- 
ment and people, that he encountered the wanton out- 
rage which forms the subject matter of his petition to 
your lordships. It is couched in firm, yet respectful 
language — in the language of a man, not regardless of 
what is due to himself, but, at the same time, I trust, 



equally mindful of the deference to be paid to this 
House. The petitioner states, amongst other matter 
of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, 
that on the 21st January, i8i3, at Iluddersfield, him- 
self and six other persons, who, on hearing of his ar- 
rival, had waited on him merely as a testimony of re- 
spect, were seized by a military and civil force, and 
kept in close custody for several hours, subjected to 
gross and abusive insinuations from the commanding- 
officer relative to the character of the petitioner; that 
he the petitioner was finally carried before a magistrate; 
and not released till an examination of his papers proved 
that there was not only no just, but not even statuta- 
ble charge against him ; and that notwithstanding the 
promise and order from the presiding magistrates of a 
copy of the warrant against your petitioner, it was af- 
terwards withheld on divers pretexts, and has never 
until this hour been ('ranted. The names and condi- 
tion of the parties will be found in the petition. To 
the other topics touched upon in the petition, I shall 
not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the 
time of the House; but I do most sincerely call the at- 
tention of your lordships to its general contents — it is 
in the cause of the parliament and people that the 
rights of this venerable freeman have been violated, 
and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect 
that could be paid to the House, that to your justice, 
rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now 
commits himself. Whatever may be ihe fate of his re- 
monstrance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mixed 
with regret for the occasion, that I have this opportu- 
nity of publicly stating the obstruction to which the 
subject is liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful 
and imperious of his duties, the obtaining by petition 
reform in parliament. I have shortly stated his com- 
plaint; the petitioner has more fully expressed it. 
Your Lordships will, I hope, adopt some measure fully 
to protect and redress him ; and not him alone, but the 
whole body of the people insulted and aggrieved in his 
person by the interposition of an abused civil, and un- 
lawful military force, between them and their right of 
petition to their own represeatatives. 

His Lordship then presented the petition from Major 
Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the cir- 
cumstances at Huddersfield, and of interruptions given 
to the right of petitioning, in several places in the north- 
ern parts of the kingdom, and which his lordship moved 
should be laid on the table. 

Several Lords having spoken on the question, 
LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from motives 
of duty, presented this petition to their lordships' con- 
sideration. The noble Earl had contended that it was 
not a petition, but a speech ; and that, as it contained 
no prayer, it should not be received. What was the 
necessity of a prayer ? If that word were to be used in 
its proper sense, their lordships could not expect that 
any man should pray to others. He had only to say, 
that the petition though in some parts expressed strong- 
ly perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of ad- 
dress, but was couched in respectful language towards 
their lordships ; he should therefore trust their lordships 
would allow the petition to be received. 



DON JUAN. 



56 i 



J3on Juan 



Difficile est proprio communia dicere. 

HOR. Episl. ad Pison. 
Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more 
Cakes and Ale ?— Yes, by St Anne , and Ginger shall ho hot i' 
Ihe mouth, too!— Twelfth IS'ight ; or What you Will.— 

SHAKSPEARE. 



CANTO I. 



I want a hero: — an uncommon want, 

When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not the true one; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I '11 therefore lake our ancient friend Don Juan; 
We all have seen him in the pantomime 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

H. 

Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 

Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, 
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, 

And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 

Followers of fame, « nine farrow» of that sow: 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
B.ccorded in the Monitcur and Courier. 

III. 
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 

Petion, Glootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 

And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau, 

With many of the military set, 
Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
!'>ut not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 

And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd, 

Because the army's grown more popular. 
At which the naval people are concern'd : 

Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

V. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon, i 
And since exceeding valorous and sage, 

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none, 
But then they shone not on the poet's page, 

And so have been forgotten: — I condemn none, 
But can' t find any in the present age 

Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 

So, as I said, I '11 take my friend Don Juan. 



VI. 

Most epic poets plunge in « medias res» 

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), 
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 

What went before — by way of episode, 
While seated after dinner at his ease, 

Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
Palace or garden, paradise or cavern, 
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern, 

VII. 
That is the usual method, but not mine — 

My way is to begin with the beginning; 
The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 
And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Although it cost me half au hour in spinning), 
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan' s father, 
And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. 

VIII. 

Tn Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 

Famous for oranges and women — he 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 

So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see : 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquiver. 

IX. 
His father's name was Jose — Don, of course, 

A true hidalgo, free from every stain 
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 

Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain. 
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 

Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
Ilegot— but that's to come — Well, to renew: 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 

In every christian language ever named, 
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone; 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XI. 

Ucr memory was a mine: she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor miss'd his part, 

She could have served him for the prompter's copy; 

For her Feinagle's were an useless art, 

And he himself obliged to shut up shop— he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 

7 t 



562 



BYRON'S WORK; 



XII. 

Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 

Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; 

In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 

And other stuffs, witli which I wont stay puzzling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, « the Lord's prayer,» 
And Greek — the alphabet, I 'm nearly sure; 

She read some French romances here and there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure : 

For native Spanish she had no great care, 
At least her conversation was obscure ; 

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XIV. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
And said there was analogy between 'em ; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 

But F must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em : 

But this I heard her say, and can' t be wrong, 

And all may think which way their j udgments lean' em. 

« 'T is strange — the Hebrew noun which means ' I am,' 

The English always use to govern d— n. 

XV. 



XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, 

Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, 
Or Mrs Trimmer's books on education, 

Or « Ccelebs' Wife» set out in quest of lovers, 
Morality's prim personification, 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; 
To others' share let « female errors fall,» 
For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVII. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell, 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison i 

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 

Save thine « incomparable oil,» Macassar! 2 

XVIII. 

Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), 
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 



XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd : 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two, 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such indeed siie was in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit, 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 

Oft in the wronj;, and never on his guard; 
And even the wisest, do the best they can, 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 
That you might « brain them with their lady's fan' 

And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 
And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 
'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 

With persons of no sort of education, 
Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, 

Grow tired of scientific conversation: 
I don't chuse to say much upon this head, 

I'm a plain man, and in a single station, 
But — oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? 

XXIII. 
Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — -why, 

Not any of the many could divine ; 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine : 
I loathe that low vice curiosity; 

But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs, 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
For neither of them could I ever find, 

Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
But that's no matter, and the worst's behind — 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth : 

Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth 

To school, or had him whipp'd at home, 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 



DON JUAN. 



XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 
For sometime an unhappy sort of life, 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
They lived respectably as man and wife, 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother' d fire broke out, 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 

And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, 
But as he had some lucid intermissions, 

She next decided he wasonly bad; 
Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 

No sort of explanation could be had, 
Save that her duty both to man and God 
Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 

XXVIII. 
She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 

And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 
All which might, if occasion served, be quoted; 

And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
Besides her good old grandmother (who doted) ; 

The hearers of her case became repeaters, 
Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 
Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 
And then this best and meekest woman bore 

With such serenity her husband's woes, 
Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 
Never to say a word about them more — 

Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 
And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 
That all the world exclaim'd, « What magnanimity!" 

XXX. 

No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us, 

Is philosophic in our former friends; 
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 

The more so in obtaining our own ends; 
And what the lawyers call a <-<-malus animus,* 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends : 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, 
I3ut then 't is not my fault if otiiers hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

J 'm not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 

By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all : 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 

Then their relations,"who made'malters worse 

('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 



XXXIII. 

He died : and most unluckily, because, 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kinds of laws 

(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect), 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To public feeling, which on this occasion 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah! he died ! and buried with him lay 
The public feling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say: 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease, 

He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honourable man, 

That I must say, who knew him very well; 

Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan, 
Indeed there were not many more to tell; 

And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so peaceable 

As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), 

He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him, 

Let's own, since it can do no good on earth; 
It was a trying moment that which found him, 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 

Where all his household goods lay shiver'd round him; 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands, 
Which, with a long minority and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 

And answer'd but to nature's just demands; 
An only son left with an only mother 
Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 
And worthy of the noblest pedigree 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon) : 
Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 

In case our lord the king should go to war again, 
He learu'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 
But that which Donna inez most desired, 

And saw into herself each day before all 
The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 

Was that his breeding should be strictly moral; 
Much into all his studies she inquired, 

And so they were submitted first to her, all 
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 



564 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL. 

The languages, especially the dead, 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use, 

In all these he was much and deeply read;. 
But not a page of any thing that 's loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species, 

Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 

XLI. 
His classic studies made a little puzzle, 

Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 

But never put on pantaloons or boddices; 
His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 

And for their jEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 
Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 
For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him ; 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample; 
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem; 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
Although 3 Longinus tells us there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
Beginning with « Formosum pastor Corydon.» 

XLIII. 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song, 

So much indeed as to be downright rude; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? 

XLIV. 
Juan was taught from out the best edition, 

Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 

The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface 
Too much their modest bard by this omission, 

And pitying sore his mutilated case, 
They only add them all in an appendix, 4 
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we have them all « at one fell swoop, » 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring altogether, 

Like garden gods — and not so decent, either. 

XLVI. 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray 
Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 



XLVII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 

He did not take such studies for restraints : 

But how faith is acquired, and then insured, 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 

Which make the reader envy his transgressions. 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right, 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright; 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 

Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace : 
At six a charming child, and at eleven 

With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 

He studied steadily and grew apace, 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven; 

For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 

Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said he was a charming child, 
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy; 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down amongst them : to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 

But what I say is neither here nor there; 
I knew his father well, and have some skill 

In character — but it would not be fair 
From sire to son to augur good or ill : 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 
But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 
Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 
For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 

This I will say— my reasons are my own- 
That if I had an only son to put 

To school (as God be praised that I have none) 
'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 

Him up to learn his catechism alone ; 
No, no — I 'd send him out betimes to college, 
For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 

For there one learns— 't is not for me to boast, 
Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 

As well as all the Greek I since have lost: 

I say that there 's the place — but « Ferbum sat.» 

I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most, 

Knowledge of matters — but, no matter what — 

I never married— but I think, I know, 

That sons should not be educated so. 



DON JUAN. 



565 



LIV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 

Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit; he seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; 
And every body but his mother deem'd 

Him almost man; but she flew in a rage, 

And bit her lips (for else sbe might have scream'd) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of many charms in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid). 

LVI. 

The darkness of her oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin). 
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd iu Spain, 
Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. 

LYII. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should be : 
At such alliances his sires would frown, 

In that point so precise in each degree 

Tliat they bred in and in, as might be shown, 

Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 

Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh. 

For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh; 

The sons no more were short, the daughters plain; 
But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush — 

'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it centred in an only son 

Who left an only daughter; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 

I shall have much to speak about), and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 

Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 

And love than either; and there would arise 
A something in them which was not desire, 

But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 

Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole. 



LXI. 

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 

Mounting, at times to a transparent glow, 
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, 

Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

LXII. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one, 

'T were better to have two of five-aud-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now I think on 't, « mi vien in mente,» 

Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue, 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIII. 

'T is a sad thing, I cannot chuse but say, 
And all the fault of that indecent sun 

Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 

That, howsoever people fast and pray, 
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 

Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral north ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth 

('T was snow that brought Saint Anthony to reason) ; 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulat, they please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXV. 

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved uor yet abhorr d : 
They lived together as most people do, 

Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 
And not exactly either one or two; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXYI. 

Julia was — yet I never could see why — 

With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; 
Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 

For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, 

For malice still imputes some private end) 
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; 

LXYII. 
And that, still keeping up the old connexion, 

Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, 
She took his lady also in affection, 

And certainly this course was much the best : 
She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 

And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal, 
At least she left it a more slender handle. 



566 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVIII. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
With other people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, hut none could be aware 
Of this, at least no sympton e'er was shown; 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 

I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, 

She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 

Caress'd him often, such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three : 

These few short years make wondrous alterations, 

Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye : 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 

'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand 

Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 

She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, 
j For that compression in its burning core; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 
j And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 
j And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky 

Foretels the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 

And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left : 

All these are little preludes to possession, 
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 

And merely tend to show how greatly love is 

Embarrass' d at first starting with a novice. 



LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state : 
She felt it going, and resolved to make 

The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 

For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : 

Her reslutions were most truly great, 

And almost might have made a Tarquin quake ; 

She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 

As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXX VI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
Which, by the Virgin's grace let in another; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

T is surely Juan now — No 1 I 'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation ; 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 

That is to say a thought, beyond the common 
Preference that we must feel upon occasion 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell? 

The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they're ov< 
And, if the man should ask, 't is but denial: 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix' d and pure, 

Such as the angels think so very fine, 

And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, «just such love as mine;>i 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure, 

And so I 'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger; 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd ; 
For my part, to such doings I rn a stranger, 

Out hear these freedoms for the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger ; 

if people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, 

But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 

Exertion might be usefid on occasion; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and her together — 
I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 



DON JUAN. 



56- 



LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 
She, for the future of her strength convinced, 

And that her honour was a rock, or mole, 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control : 
But whether Julia to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 

And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
Xot scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable ; 

Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable — 

A quiet conscience makes one so serene! 
Christians have burn'd each other, quite persuaded 
That all the apostles would have done as they did. 

LXXXIV. 

And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 

But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream (and then she sigh'd) ! 
Never could she survive that common loss; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
I only say suppose it — inter nos 

(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought). 

LXXXY. 

I only say suppose this supposition ■ 

Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 

Would fully suit a widow of condition; 

Even seven years hence it would not be too late; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn the rudiments of love, 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXY r. 
So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
His home deserted for the lonely wood, 

Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 

I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
But then I beg it may be understood 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 

LXXXVTII. 

« Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 

Where transport and security entwine, 
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 

And here thou art a god indeed divine.» 
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 5 

With the exception of the second line, 
For that same twining « transport and security" 
Are uvisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 



LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind, 

The very thing which every body feels 
As all have found on trial, or may find, 

That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 

Or love : — I won't say more about « entwined* 

Or « transport," as we know all that before, 

Rut beg « security» will bolt the door. 

XC. 
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 

Thinkiug unutterable things; he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 
There poets find materials for their books, 

And every now and then we read them through, 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

CIX. 

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
Ltad mitigated part, though not the whole 

Of its disease; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control, 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCII. 

Me thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 

And how the deuce they ever could have birth; 
And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars, 

How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
Of air-balloous, and of the many bars 

To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies; 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 

In. thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 

Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 

'T was strange that one so young should thus concern 
His brain about the action of the sky; 

If you think 't was philosophy that this did, 

I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIV. 

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 
And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 

he thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
And how the goddesses came down to men : 

lie miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 
And, when he look'd upon his watch again, 

He found how much old Time had been a winner, 

lie also found that he had lost his dinner. 

XCY. 
Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 

Boscan, or Garcilasso; by the wind 
Even as the page is rustled while we look, 

So by the poesy of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 

As if *t were one whereon magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
According to some good old woman's tale. 



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BYRON'S WORKS 



xcvi. 

Thus would he -while his lonely hours away 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; 

Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted — 

A hosom whereon he his head might lay, 

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 

With — several other things, which I forget, 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XGVII. 

Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 
Gould not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 

Slie saw that Juan was not at his ease; 

But that which chiefly may and must surprise, 

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
Her only son with question or surmise ; 

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 

Or, like all very clever people, could not. 

XCVIII. 

This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 

And break the — Which commandmentis't they break? 
(I have forgot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
I say when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious, 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 

By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; 
The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

C. 

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 

But Inez was so anxious and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving Juaa to this new temptation; 

But what that motive was, I shan't say here; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 

In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

CII. 

It was upon a day, a summer's day; — , 

Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 

And so is spring about the end of May ; 

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; 

But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 

And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 

That there are months which nature grows more merry 
in — 

March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 



cm. 

'T was on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates, 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon; 

They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 

CIV. 

'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven, 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 

With all the trophies of triumphant song — 

He won them well, and may he wear them long. 

CV. 

She sate, but not alone; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place, 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case: 

No matter how or why the thing befel, 

But there were she and Juan face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVI. 

How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong, 

Oh love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, 

Strengthening the weak and trampling on the strong ! 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along ! 

The precipice she stood on was immense — 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 

CVII. 

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 

And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, 

Because that number rarely much endears, 
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CVIII. 

When people say, «I 've told you fifty times," 
They mean to scold, and very often do; 

When poets say, «I 've written fifty rhymes,» 

They make you dread that they '11 recite them too; 

In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes : 
At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true ; 

But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 

A good deal may be bought for fifty louis. 

CIX. 
Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, 

For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, N 
By all the vows below to powers above, 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 

And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own. 



DON JUAN. 



56 9 



ex. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
Sheseem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair, 

She who for many years had watch' d her son so — 

I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. 

CXI. 
The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 

Gently, but palpably, contirm'dits grasp, 
As if it said « Detaiu me, if you please;» 

Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze : 

She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp, 
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

cxir. 

I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
But what he did is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, 
Love is so very timid when 't is new : 

She blush' d and frown'd not, but she strove Jo speak, 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

CX1II. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they 

Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
Their nomenclature : there is not a day, 

The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
Sees half the business in a wicked way 

On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 

And then she looks so modest all the while ! 

CXIV. 

There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 

A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 
Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 

The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 
And half retiring from the glowing arm, 

Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed : 
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 

Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist; 
But then the situation had its charm, 

And then God knows what next — I can't go on; 

I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXYT. 

Oh Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 

Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You 're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between. 



CXVTI. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 

Until too late for useful conversation; 
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 

I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion; 
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? 

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 
A little still she strove, and much repented, 
And whispering « I will ne'er consent » — consented. 

cxvnr. 

'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 

To those who could invent him a new pleasure; 

Methinks the requisition 's rather hard, 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 

For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard, 
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure! you 're indeed a pleasant thing, 

Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt; 

I make a resolution every spring 

Of reformation ere the year run out, 

But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed, 
I And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

GXX. 

Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 

Start not! still chaster reader,— she '11 be nice hence 

Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 
This liberty is a poetic license, 

Which some irregularity may make 

In the design ; and as I have a high sense 

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit 

To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 

For want of facts, would all be thrown away), 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'II say 

'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure 

About the day — the era 's more obscure. 

CXXIL 

We '11 talk of that anon. — 'T is sweet to hear, 
At midnight, on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 

'T is sweet to see the evening star appear; 
T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 

CXXIII. 

T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's- honest bark 

i!ay deep mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 

'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 

T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 



570 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; 

Sweet to the father is his hrst-born's birth; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 

Sweet is a legacy; and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 

Who 've made « us youth » wait too — too long already 

For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Next owner, for their double-damn'd post-obits. 

CXXVI. 

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end 

To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 

Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot 

We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVI I. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd— all 's known— 

And life yields nothing further torecal 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

CXXVIII. 

Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature and the various arts, 

And likes particularly to produce 

Some new experiment to show his parts: 

This is the age of oddities let loose, 

Where different talents find their different marts : 

You 'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost your 

Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets :) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Comjreve's rockets, 



GXXX. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 

But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
Of the Humane Society's beginning, 

By which men are unsuffocated gratis; — 

What wondrous new machines have late been spinning 



CXXXI. 



CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 

For killing bodies and for saving souls, 
All propagated with the best intentions: 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions; 

Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful beyond all Avondrous measure;' 

'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that 

Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure. 

Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then— 

CXXXIV. 

What then? — I do not know, no more do you — 
And so good night. — Return we to our story: 

T was in November, when fine days are few, 
And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 

And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; 
And the sea dashes round the promontory, 

And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 

And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

exxxv. 

T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 

With the piled wood, round which the family crowd: 
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light, 

Even as a summer sky's without a cloud: 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobstersalad, and champagne, and chat. 

cxxxvi. 

'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 
Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 

Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 
If they had never been awoke before — 

And that they have been so we all have read, 
And are to be so, at the least, once more. 

The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, 

First knocks were heard, then « Madam— Madam — hist! 

CXXXVII. 

« For God's sake, Madam — Madam — here's my master, 
With more than half the city at his back — 

Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster? 

'T is not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack! 

Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster— 

They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack 

Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly — 

Surely the window's not so very high ! » 



DON JUAN. 



5? 



CXXXVI1I. 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 

With torches, friends, and servants in great number; 
The major part of them had long been -wived, 

And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to encumber: 
Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 

Could enter into Don Alfonso's head, 
But for a cavalier of his condition 

It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
Without a word of previous admonition, 

To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, 
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep 

(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept), 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept: 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, 

Has thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 

And therefore side by side were gently laid, 

Until the hours of absence should run through, 

And truant hushand should return, and say, 

« My dear, I was the first who came away.» 

CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 

« In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? 

Has madness seized you? would that I had died 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 

What may this midnight violence betide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? 

Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? 

Search, then, the room!» — Alfonso said, « I will.w 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged every where, 
Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window-seat, 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords r 

And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found — 
No matter what — it was not that ihey sought; 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 

Had signs of foot-marks, but the earth said nought : 

And then they stared each others' faces round : 
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of lookiog in the bed as well as under. 



CXLV. 
During this iuquisition Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — « Yes, search and search, » she cried, 
« Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have suffer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I 11 bear no more, nor here remain, 
If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXL VI. 

« Yes, Don Alfonso, husband now no more, 

If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
Is 't worthy of your years? — you have threescore, 

Fifty, or sixty — it is all the same — 
Is t wise or fitting causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso ! 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 

CXLVII. 

« Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex? 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted 1 was married — 
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried ! 

CXLVIII. 

« Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? 
Is it for this I scarce went any where, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? 
Is it for this, whale'er my suitors were, 

I favour' d none — nay, was almost uncivil? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares \ used him vilely? 6 

CXLIX. 

« Did not the Italian Musico Cazzaui 

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 

Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 

Were there not also Russians, English, many ? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 

And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 

Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 
« Have I not had two bishops at my feet, 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez ? 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is : 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? 

CLI. 
« Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 

Under pretence of business indispensable, 
With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 

Whom I see standiug there, and looking sensible 
Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 

Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible, 
Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee, 
And not from any love to you or me. 



572 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLII. 

« If he comes here to take a deposition, 
By all means let the gentleman proceed; 

You 've made the apartment in a fit condition : 

There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 

Let every thing he noted with precision, 

I -would not you for nothing should be fee d — 

But, as my maid's undress'd, pray turn your spies out.» 

« Oh !» sobb'd Antonia, « I could tear their eyes out.» 

CLIII. 

« There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The ante-chamber — search tliem under, over : 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
The chimney— which would really hold a lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 

And, when *t is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 

CLIV. 

« And now, hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all, 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the man you search for ? how d' ye call 
Him ? what 's his lineage ? let him but be shown — 

I hope he 's young and handsome — is he tall? 
Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 

CLV. 
« At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 

At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 

(Antonia ! let me have a glass of water). 
I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 

They are unworthy of my father's daughter; 
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
That I should fall into a monster's power. 

GLVI. 

« Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows: 

Look where you please — we 've nothing, sir, to hide ; 

Only another time, I trust, you '11 tell us, 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

CLVII. 
« And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little 1 have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

'T will one day ask you why you used me so ? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief ! — 
Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?" 

CLVIH. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay, her dark eyes Hashing through their tears, 

Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil 

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 

Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail, 
To hide the glossy shoulder which uprears 

Its snow through all ; her soft lips lie apart, 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 



GLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antouia's motions here and there, 

With much suspicion in his attitude; 
For reputations he had little care: 

So that a suit or action were made good, 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 

Were proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with so much rigour, 

He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigour 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour, 

Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply were tears and sobs, 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always certain throes and throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners chuse. — 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw, too, in perspective, her relations, 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLX1II. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 

With, « Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, 
Or madam dies.» — Alfonso mutter'd «D n her.» 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 
With him retired his « posse comitalus,* 

The attorney last, who lin;;er'd near the door, 
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 

Antonia let him — not a little sore 
At this most strange and unexplain'd « hiatusn 

In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind .' 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
Young Juan slipp'd, half smother'd, from the bed. 



DON JUAN. 



5 7 3 



CLXVI. 
He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 

No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 
But pity him I neither must nor may 

His suffocation by that pretty pair; 
'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 
With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, — 

At least 't was rather early to begin; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely goaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil. 

CLXV1II. 

Of his position I can give no notion : 

T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 

Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
When oid King David's blood grew dull in motion, 

And that the medicine answer'd very well; 
Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, 
For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

Y\ T hat 's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 

But no device could be brought into play — 

And how to parry the renew'd attack? 
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: 

Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, 

But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 

Even then their love they could not all command, 
And half forgot their danger and despair: 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

«Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there, » 

She whisper'd in great wrath — «I must deposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXX1. 

«Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night — 
Who can have put my master in this mood ? 

What will become on 't? — I 'm in such a fright ! 
The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 

Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? 

Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? 

You '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 

My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 

clxxh. 

«Had it but been for a stout cavalier 

Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a child, what piece of work is here! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 

(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 
There, for the present at the least he 's fast, 

And, if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel — (Juan, mind you must not sleep). » 



CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 

Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 

An order somewhat sullenly obey'd; 
However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd: 
Begarding both with slow and sidelong view, 
She suuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIY. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 

He would not justify what he had done, 

To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding: 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call « rigmarole » 

CLXXY. 

Julia said nought ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; 

'T is to retort with firmness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with tlcree. 

CLXX VI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known; 

But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds — 
But that can't be, as has been often shown; 

A lady with apologies abounds : 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes two: 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true, 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded ; 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXYIII. 
A hint, in tender cases, is enough; N 

Sileuce is best, besides there is a tact 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 

A lady always distant from the fact — 
The charming creatures He with such a grace, 
There 's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 
They blush, and we believe them; at least I 

Have always done so; 't is of no great use, 
In any case, attempting a reply, 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse : 
And when at length they are out of breath, they sigh, 

And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
And then — and then— and then — sit down and sup. 



5 7 4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 

And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
Denying several little things he wanted : 

He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden, 
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 

beseeching she no further would refuse, 

When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

clxxxl 

A pair of shoes ! — what then 1 not much, if they 
Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
Were masculine : to see them and to seize 

Was but a moment's act. — Ah! well-a-day! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 

GLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew; 
« Fly, Juan, fly ! for Heaven's sake — not a w r ord — 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — fly — fly — adieu! 
Haste — haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there 's no one in the street.^ 

CLXXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
The only mischief was, it came too late ; 

Of all experience 't is the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan kncck'd him down. 

CLXXX1V. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; 

Antonia cried out «Rape!» and Julia «Fire!» 
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
Swore lustily he d be revenged this night: 

And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher. 
His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand, 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it; 

His temper not being under great command, 

If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives ! 

And how r you may be doubly widows — wives ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
And Juan throttled him to get away, 

And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow; 
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 

Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 
And then his only garment quite gave way ; 

He fled, like Joseph, leaving it — but there, 

I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 



CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found, 
An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more : 

Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 

And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 

Here ends this Canto. — Need I sing or say, 1 
How Juan, naked, favour d by the night 

(Who favours what she should not), found his way, 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 

The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 
j And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 

The depositions, and the cause at full, 
j The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 

Of counsel to non-suit or to annul, 
There 's more than one edition, and the readings 

Are various, but they none of them are dull: 
The best is that in short-hand, ta'en by Gurney, 
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

cxc. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 

Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Yandals, 

First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 
She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea, 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy 
(At least this is the thing most people do). 

Julia was sent into a convent; she 
Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of her letter : 

CXCII. 

I « They tell me 't is decided, you depart : 

'T is wise— 't is w ell, but not the less a pain : 
; I have no further claim on your young heart, 

Mine is the victim, and would be again ; 
; To love loo much has been the only art 

I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
] Be on this sheet, 't is not wliat it appears — 
! My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

CXCIII. 
| «I loved, I love you; for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
j And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 
So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast.— 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
5 trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
1 ve nothing to reproach or to request. 



DON 


TUAK. 676 


CXCIV. 


ccr. 


» Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 


All these things will be specified in time. 


'T is woman's whole existence; man may range 


With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 


The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; 


The vade mecum of the true sublime, 


Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 


TA Inch makes so many poets and some fools. 


Pride, fame, ambition, to rill up his heart, 


Prose poets like blank-verse— I *m fond of rhyme — 


And few there are whom these cannot estrange : 


Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 


Men have all these resources, we but one — 


I've got new mythological machinery, 


To love again, and be again undone. 


And very handsome supernatural scenerv. 


CXCV. 


ecu. 


« You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 


There 's only one slight difference between 


Beloved and loving many; all is o'er 


Me and my epic brethren gone before. 


For me on earth, except some years to hide 


And here the advantage is mv own, I ween 


My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core : 


(Not that I have not several merits more); 


These I could hear, but cannot cast aside 


But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 


The passion, which still rages as before: 


They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 


And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 


Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 


That word is idle now — but let it go. 


Whereas this story 's actually true. 


CXCVI. 


CCIII. 


« My breast has been all weakness, is so yel; 


If any person doubt it, I appeal 


But still, I think. I can collect my mind; 


To history, tradition, and to facts, 


My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 


To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 


As roll the waves before the settled wind; 


To plays in five, and operas in three acts ; 


My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 


All these confirm mv statement a good deal, 


To all, except one image, madly blind : 


But that which more completely faith exacts 


So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 


Is that myself, and several now in Seville, 


As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 


Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 


CXCVII. 


CCiV. 


« I have no more to say, but linger still, 


If ever I should condescend to prose, 


And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 


I '11 write poetical commandments, which 


And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 


Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 


My misery can scarce be more complete : 


That went before; in these I shall enrich 


I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 


My text with many things that no one knows, 


Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet 


And carry precept to the highest pitch : 


And I must even survive this last adieu, 


I '11 call the work « Longinus o'er a Bottle, 


And bear with life, to Jove and pray for you! » 


Or, Every poet his own Aristotle." 


CXCVII I. 


CCV. 


This note was written upon gilt-edged paper, 


Thou shalt believe in Milton, Drvden, Pope : 


Willi a neat little crow-quill, slight and new : 


Thou shalt not set upWordsworth, Coleridge, Southey : 


Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 


Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 


It trembled as magnetic needles do, 


The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey : 


And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 


With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 


The seal a sun-flower ; « Elle vous suit partout,» 


And Campbell s Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 


The motto cut upon a white cornelian, 


Thou shalt not steal from Samuel B.ogers, nor 


The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 


Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore : 


CXCIX. 


CCVI. 


This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether 


Thou shalt not covet Mr Sotheby's Muse, 


I shall proceed with his adventures is 


His Pegasus, nor any thing that 's his : 


Dependent on the public altogether : 


Thou shalt not bear false witness, like « the Blues » 


We '11 see, however, what they say to this 


(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this' : 


(Their favour in an author's cap's a feather, 


Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I chuse : 


And no great mischief 's done by their caprice); 


This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 


And. if their approbation we experience, 


Exactly as you please, or not — the rod, 


Perhaps they 11 have some more about a year hence. 


But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 


CC. 


CCVII. 


My poem's epic, and is meant to be 


If any person should presume to assert 


Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 


The story is not moral, first, I pray 


With love, and war. a heavy gale at sea, 


That they will not cry out before they 're hurt; 


A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 


Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say 


New characters; the episodes are three: 


(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 


A panorama view of hell 's in training, 


That this is not a moral tale, though gay; 


After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 


Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 


So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 


The very place where wicked people go. 



76 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CCVITI. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind, 

Not to believe my verse and tbeir own eyes, 

And cry that they « the moral cannot find, » 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies — 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 

The public approbation I expect, 

And beg they '11 take my word about the moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral); 
Meantime, they '11 doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
I 've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 

CGX. 

I sent it in a letter to the editor, 

Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 

I 'm for a handsome article his creditor; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost, 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that with this holy new alliance 

I may insure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science, 

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 

Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

« Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa 

Consule Planco,» Horace said, and so 
Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 

Hint that some six or seven good years ago 
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta), 

I was most ready to return a blow, 
And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

CCXIII. 
But now, at thirty years, my hair is grey 

(I wonder what it will be like at forty? 
I thought of a peruke the other day), 

My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May, 

And feel no more the spirit to retort; I 
Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

CGXIV. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 

The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
Which out of all the lovely things we see 

Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 

Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew? 
Alas', 't was not in them, but in thy power, 
To double even the sweetness of a flower. 



CCXV. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 

Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse; 
The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 

Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 
And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, 
Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 

CCXVI. 
My d.iys of love are over — me no more 7 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 
Can make the fool of which they made before — 

In short I must not lead the life I did do: 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er; 

The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 
So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, 
I think I must take up with avarice. 

CCXVII. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure; 

And the two last have left me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 
« Time is, time was, time's past,» a chymic treasure 

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 

CCXVHI. 

What is the end of fame ? 't is but to fill 

A certain portion of uncertain paper; 
Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; 
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill ; 

And bards burn what they call their ^midnight taper,» 
To have, when the original is dust, 
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's king, 

Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
But somebody or other, rummaging, 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid; 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

ccxx. 

But I, being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, « Alas! 
All things that have been born were born to die, 

And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; 
You've pass'dyour youth not so unpleasantly, 

And if you had it o'er again — 't would pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse. » 

CCXXI. 

But for the present, gentle reader! and 

Still gentler purchaser! the bard — that 's I — 

Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 
And so your humble servant, and good bye! 

We meet again, if we should understand 
Each other; and if not, I shall not try 

Your patience further than by this short sample — 

'T were well if others follow'd my example. 



DON JUAN. 



r,-, 



CCXXII. 

« Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters; go thy ways! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find thee after many days.» 
When Soutliey 's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line; 
For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine. 



CANTO II. 



Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 

It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations, 
In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain, 

Since in a way, that 's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school, 
In the third form, or even in the fourth, 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 

At least had he been nurtured in the north. 

Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 
But then exceptions always prove its worth : 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

III. 

I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 

If all things be consider'd : first there was 

His lady mother, mathematical, 

A , never mind; his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman — (that 's quite natural, 
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass) ; 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 

Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 

And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; 

The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 

A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 

Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 

V. 
I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel) ; 
And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
Nor liken it— I never saw the like : 



VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, 
No — none of these will do : and then their garb! 

Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto : then their feet and ancles! — well, 
Thank Heaven I ve got no metaphor quite ready 
(And so my sober Muse — come, Jet 's be steady — 

VII. 

Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 

While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
Flashes into the heart. — All sunny land 

Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 

To say my prayers — but never was there plann'd 

A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, 

Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli, 

VIII. 

But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 
Her son to Cadiz only to embark; 
To stay there had not answer'd her intent ; 
I But why? — we leave the reader in the dark: 
i T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, 
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bid his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some money : for four springs 

He was to travel; and, though Inez grieved 
(As every kind of parting has its stings), 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed : 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 

X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd— the ship got under weigh, 

The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 

As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough ; 
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 

Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough : 
And there he stood to take, and take again, 
His first— perhaps his last— farewell of Spain. 
XII. 
: I can't but say it is an. awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding through 
I The growing waters— it unmans one quite ; 

Especially when life is rather new : 
I I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 

But almost every other country's blue, 
i When, gazing on them, mystified by distance, 
| We enter on our nautical existence. 



5 7 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIII. 
j So Juan stood bewilder'd on the deck : 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, 
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 

From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness; try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 

Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 

Even nations feel this when they go to war. 
There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 
At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 
But Juan had got many things to leave— 

His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 
So that he had much better cause to grieve 

Than many persons more advanced in life ; 
And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 

At quitting even those we quit in strife, 
No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's water, still remembering Sion : 

I 'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse, 

And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 

Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 

« Sweets to the sweet ;» (I like so much to quote : 
You must excuse this extract, 't is where she, 

The Oueen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 

Reflected on his present situation, 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

«Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!» he cried, 

« Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! 

Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia !»— (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

« And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Than I resign thine image, oh! my fair ! 
Or think of any thing, excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physicw — 

(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick). 



XX. 
« Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell sicker) 
Oh, Julia! what is every other woe! — 
j (For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor- 
Pedro! Battista! help me down below.) 
Julia! my love ! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 

Oh, Julia ! — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 
Beloved Julia! hear me still beseechingw — 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching). 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, 
Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art, 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 

Or death of those we doat on, when a part 

Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends : 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power; I 've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat. 

Against all noble maladies he 's bold, 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh; 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
About the lower region of the bowels ; 

Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 

Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how else 

Gould Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? 

XXIV. 

The ship, called the most holy « Trinidada,» 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born ; 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His head-ache being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His birth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'T was not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 

And though 't was not much to a naval mind, 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 
At sunset they began to take in sail, 

For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 



DON JUAN. 



&?9 



XXVII. 

; At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 
, Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 

Herself from out her present jeopardy, 
The rudder tore away : 't was time to sound 
The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

XXVIII, 
One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not, 

But they could not come at the leak as yet; 
At last they did get at it really, hut 

Still their salvation was an even het : 
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin. 

XXIX. 

Into the opening; but all such ingredients 

Would have been vain, and they must have gene down 

Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 

But for the pumps : I m glad to make them known 

To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 
For fifty tons of water were up thrown 

By them per hour; and they had all been undone 

But for the maker, Mr .Man, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet vet 
Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and, while some guns hroke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXI. 
There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset; 

The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 
And made a scene men do not soon forget; 

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
Or any other thing that brings regret. 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks : 
Thus drownings are much taik'd of by the divers 
And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away, 

Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, 

The main-mast follovv'd : hut the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffied our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted), 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXII r. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet; 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; 

That even the ahle seaman, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 



XXXIV. 

There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 

As rum and true religion; thus it was, 
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms. 

The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured the 
qualms 

Of all the luckless landsmeu's sea-sick maws: 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

XXXV. 
Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 

Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 
Got to the spirit- room, and stood before 

It with a pair of pistols; and their fears, 
As if Death were more dreadful by his door 

Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 
thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 
« Give us more grog," they cried, « for it will be 

All one an hour hence. >» Juan answer'd, « Xo ! 
'T is true that death awaits both you and me, 

But let us die like men, not sink below 
Like brutes : » — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 

And none liked to anticipate the blow; 

iAnd even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 
XXXVIL 
The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 

And made a loud and pious lamentation; 
Repented all his sins, and made a last 

Irrevocable vow of reformation; 
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 

To quit his academic occupation, 
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 
But now there came a flash of hope once more; 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gone. 
The leak increased ; shoals round her," but no shore, 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 

The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 
And for the moment it had some effect; 

But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 
Xor rag of canvas, what could they expect? 

But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 
T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 

And though 't is true that man can only die once, 

>T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 

There winds and waves had huri'd them, and from thence, 
Without their will, they carried them away; 

For they were forced with steering to dispense, 
And never had as yet a quiet day 

On which they might repose, or even commence 
A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 

The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck. 

Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 



58o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship lahour'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope, 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threaten'd,— again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roli'd, 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings' during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 

In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
Gould do no more : he was a man in years, 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea; 
And if he wept at length, they were not fears 

That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children — ■ 

Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow; 
Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 

Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 

Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 

And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair; 
And others went on, as they had begun, 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'T was difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dyiog, dislike inanition; 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress: 

Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below, 

And with a piece of pork , moreover, met, 

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 



XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinhace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale; 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 

'T was twilight, for the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil , 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one who hates us, so the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale, 

And hopeless eyes, which o'er the deep alone 

Gazed dim and desolate; twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft, 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
If any laughter at such times could be, 
i Unless with people who too much have quaff d, 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, 

Half epileptical and half hysterical : 

Th.eir preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, 
Aud all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars; 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell! 

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave; 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

LIII. 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had get off before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore; 
And then they were too many, though so few — 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 



DON JUAN. 



58 



LV. 

All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies; and, what 's worse, alas! 

When over catholics the ocean rolls, 

They must wait several weeks before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 

Because, till people know what 's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got info the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case; 

Battista (though a name called shortly Tita) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save; 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 

They could not rescue him, although so close, 
Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 

For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness, — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) 
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; 

And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stuff d his money where he could 

About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
Who let him do, in fact, whateer he would, 

Not knowing what himself to say or do, 
As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 
And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 

'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze; 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And made them bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
And present peril all before surpass'd, 

They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 



LXII. 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 

Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 

Was all that for the present could be done : 
A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 

Was served out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion! 

They did their best to modify their case, 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion, 

While t' other half were laid down in their place, 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, 

With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 

LXIV. 

T is very certain the desire of life 
Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

'T is said that persons living on annuities 

Are longer lived than others, — God knows why, 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is, 
That some, I really think, do never die. 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 

And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way, 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'T is thus with people in an open boat: 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought,. 

And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear; 

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there — 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, 

Your labouring people think beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
Lull'il them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
And fell all ravenously on their provision,. 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 



58a 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 

They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men ! 
And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, 

Cut, as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 

What could they do ! and hunger's rage grew wild : 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 

Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received (though first denied), 
As a great favour, one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
Blister'd and scorch'd ; and, stagnant on the sea, 

They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, 
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely 

They glared upon each other — all was done, 

Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXHI. 

At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; 

And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 

j Cut ere they came to this, they that day shared 

Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes; 

' And then they look'd around them, and despair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would chuse; 

i At length the lots were torn up and prepared, 
But of materials that much shock the muse— 

; Having no paper, for the want of better, 

; They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 



LXXV. 



The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed, 



In silent horror, and their distribution 



LulI'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution: 

None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 
'T -was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
| By which none were permitted to be neuter-— 

And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 



LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 

The surgeon had his instruments and bled 

Pedrillo; and so gently ebb'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

lie died as born, a Catholic in faith, 

Like most in the belief in which they 're bred, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 

Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; 

Cut being thirstiest at the moment, he 

Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins : 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 

And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVill. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food; 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more ; 
T was not to be expected that he should, 

Even in extremity of their disaster, 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'T was better that he did not; for, in fact, 
The consequence was awful in the extreme, 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 

Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 

And, with hyaena laughter died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows; 

And some of them had lost their recollection, 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes; 

Rut others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madJy, 

For having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because, 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
There were some other reasons : the first was, 

lie had been rather indisposed of late, 

And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, 

But it was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constraint, 
Or but at times a little supper made; 

Ail except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead : 

At length they caught two boobies and a noddy, 

And then they left off eating the dead body. 



BON J IT AN. 



583 



lxxxiii. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolioo condescends 
To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And the same nightf there fell a shower of rain, 

For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 
When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain, 

Men really know not what good water 's worth : 
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boats-crew had your birth, 
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 
You'd wish yourself where Truth is— in a well. 

LXXXV. 
It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 

Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 

And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 
They rung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 

Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 

Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd ; 
Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black 

As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 
To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 

A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 
To taste of heaven : if this be true, indeed, 
Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 

And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
Was more robust and hardy to the view, 

Cut he died early; and when he was gone, 
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, and said, « Heaven s will be done i 
I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 
Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate ; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 

And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come, 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brightend, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth— but in vain. 



XG. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
And look'd'upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 

He watch' d it wistfully, until away 

T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering 

And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 

XCI. 

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 

The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue: 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

xcir. 

It changed, of course; a heavenly cameleon, 

The airy child of vapour and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptised in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turks pavilion, 

And blending every colour into one — 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 
It is as well to think so, now and then; 

'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
And may become of great advantage when 

Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men 
Had greater need to nerve themselves again 

Thau these; and so this rainbow look'd like hope-— 

Ouite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

XCIV. 
About this time a beautiful white bird, 

Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage (probably it might have err'd 

Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 
And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 

The men within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

xcv. 

But in this case I also must remark, 

'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 

Because the tackle of our shattcr'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Pieturning there from her successful search, 

Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XGVI. 
With twilight it again came on to blow, 

But not with violence; the stars shone out, 
The boat made way; yet now they were so low, 

They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
Some fancied they saw land, and some said «No !» 

The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt- 
Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
And all mistook about the latter once. 



58i 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XGVII. 

As morning broke, the light wind died away, 

When he who had the watch sung out, and swore 

If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray- 
He wish'd that land he never might see more : 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 
shore ; 

For shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 
XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 
And others, looking with a stupid stare, 

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
And seem'd as if they had no further care; 

While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years)— 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep; they shook them by the hand and head, 

And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 
XCIX. 

The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 
Because it left encouragement behind : 

They thought that in such perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 

C. 
The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast, 

And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 
Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 

In various conjectures, for none knew 
To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 

So changeable had been the winds that blew; 
Some thought it was Mount iEtna, some the highlands 
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 

CI. 
Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
Like Charon's bark ctf spectres, dull and pale : 

Their living freight was now reduced to four, 
And three 'dead, whom their strength could not avail 

To heave into the deep with those before, 
Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 
The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

cn. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 

Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
Such things, a mother had not known her son 

Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 

They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

CUT. 
As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 
Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
i They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

Tnat waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 
| And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare— 
! Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
i Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 



CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man, 
And girt by formidable waves; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
Though right a-head the roaring breakers lay : 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 

But finding no place for their landing better, 

They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 

CV. 
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 

Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 

Had often turn'd the art to some account. 
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 

He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
Leander, Mr Akenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 

So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry: 

The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; 

As for the other two, they could not swim, 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

CVII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 

And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd 

Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : 

CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wruug, 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 

With just enough of life to feel its pain, 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 

CIX. 

With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 

And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three, 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

CX. 

And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
And down he sunk : and as he suuk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 

Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 



DON JUAN. 



585 



CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
Ue knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And time had nothing more of niglit nor day 
For his congealing hlood, and senses dim : 

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 

CXII. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness : he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; 

And then once more his feelings back were brought 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen. 

cam. 

'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Piecall'd his answering spirits back from death ; 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch ; ad trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

Then was the cordial pour'd and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 

Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench' d by every storm; 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave, 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 

Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
And more robust of figure,— then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks which roofd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
In braids behind, and, though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould, 

They nearly reach' d her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

CXVII. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction, for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew : 

'T is as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 



CXVIII. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 

Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary 

(A race of mere impostors, when all 's done — 

I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal. 

CXIX. 

I '11 tell you why I say so, for 't is just 

One should not rail without a decent cause: 

There was an Irish lady, to v/hose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought). 

GXX. 

And such wa9 she, the lady of the cave: 

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 

Simple, and yet of colours not so grave ; 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress was many-colour'd finely spun ; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely shone 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXII. 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike: 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

CXXIII. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 

Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions ; 

They made a most superior mess of broth, 
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 

Cut the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 

Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 

I '11 tell you who they were, this female pair, 
Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 

Besides I hate all mystery, and that air 

Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize ; 

And so, in short, the girls they really were 
They shall appear before your curious eyes, 

Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 

Of an old man who lived upon the water. 

74 



586 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cxxv. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 

But other speculations were, in sooth, 
Added to his connexion with the sea, 

Perhaps, not so respectable, in truth : 
A little smuggling, and some piracy, 

Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 

Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 
Like Peter the Apostle- — and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, 
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd; 

The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 

Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 

By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVII. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease. 

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please, 

But this I know, it was a spacious building, 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIH. 

He had an only daughter call'd Haidee, 

The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles ; 
Besides so very beautiful was she, 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles : 
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 

So grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXXIX. 
And walking out upon the beach, below 

The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 
Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 
But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 

Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 
As far as in her lay, « to take him in, 
A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save, 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man had so much « vouj," 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 

He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

cxxxi. 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest: 

And their compassion grew to such a size, 
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven — 
(Saint Paul says 't is the toll which must be given). 



CXXXII. 

They made a fire, but such a fire as they 

Upon the moment could contrive with such 
Materials as were cast up round the bay, 

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, 
That there was fuel to have furnish' d twenty. 

CXXXIIT. 
He had a bed of furs and a pelisse, 

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 
His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 

And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 
They also gave a petticoat apiece, 

She and her maid, and promised by day-break 
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXX1V. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 

Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 
Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows), 

Just for the present, and in his lull'd head 
Not even a vision of his former woes 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread 
Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

GXXXV. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless: — but the maid 
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, 

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said 
(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen), 

He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe', who 
Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 

And Zoe spent hers as most women do, 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in nature's good old college. 

CXXXVII. 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 

His rest ; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, 
And the young beams of the excluded sun, 

Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 
And need he had of slumber yet, for none 

Had suffer'd more — his hardships were comparative 

To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 

GXXXVIII. 

Not so Haidee? she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 

Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore j 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — 

They knew not what to think of such a freak. 



DON JUAN. 



7 



CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 

With some pretence ahout the sun, that makes 

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; 

And 't is no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 

Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet 
With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 

And night is flung off like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband, or some other brute. 

CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I 've seen him rise full oft ; indeed of late 

I have sat up on purpose all the night: 

Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; 

And so all ye, -who would be in the right 
In health and purse, begin your day to date 

From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 

Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread, 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLTI. 

And down the cliff the island virgin came, 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 

Had all the advantage too of not being air. 

CXLIII. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd, 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept: 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe 
(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood; then o'er him, still as death, 
Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 

CXLIV. 

And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there 

All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, 
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 

But Zoe' the meantime some eggs was frying, 
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 

Must breakfast, and betimes — Jest they should ask it, 

She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 

And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea; 

And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea, 

But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 

With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 



GXLVI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand; 

And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared anew one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which "seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

CXLVH. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek, 

A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 
On the snow tops of distant hills; the streak 

Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, 
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak ; 

And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 

CXI/VTIT. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; 

lu short, he was a very pretty fellow, 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 

But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 

Had further sleep a further pleasure made; 
For woman's face was never form'd in vain 

For Juan, so that even when he pray'd, 
He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy 
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

CL. 
And thus upon his elbow he arose, 

And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 
The pale contended with the purple rose, 

As with an effort she began to speak ; 
Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, 

Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 
With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 
That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

CLI. 
Now Juan could not understand a word, 

Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, 
And her voice was the warble of a bird, 

So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 

The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 
Without knowing why— an overpowering tone, 
Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 

CLIf. 
And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 

By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality. 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock; 

At least it is a heavy sound to me, 
Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
Shows stars and women in a better light. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was lielp'd out from his dream, 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, hy feeling 

A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no douht was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 

Of the new fire which Zoe' kept up, kneeling 

To stir her -viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 

GLIV. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; 

Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 
And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on ; 
Others are fair and fertile, among which, 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 
I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 

That the old fable of the Minotaur— 
From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, 

Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 't is liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here; — 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 

CLVII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 

His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
Three or four things for which the Lord he praised, 

And, feeling still the famish' d vulture gnaw, 
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVITI. 

He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 

Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nursed, 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX, 

And so she took the liberty to state, 

Bather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, 

Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 



CLX. 

Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 

Pair of scarce decent trowsers — went to work. 

And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
But not a word could Juan comprehend, 

Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 

- Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend, 

Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply; 

And thus in every look she saw express'd 

A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 

And words repeated after her, he took 
A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise, 

No doubt, less of her language than her look: 
As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
As was the case, at least, where I have been; 

They smile so when one's rip,ht, and when one's wrong 
They smile still more, and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss; — 

I learn'd the little that I know by this : 

CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers, 
Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hate your poets, so read none of those. 

clxvl 

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 

Where I, like other « dogs, have had my day,» 
Like other men too, may have had my passion — 

But that, like other things, has pass'd away: 
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on, 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 



DON JUAN. 



58 9 



CLXYII. 
Return we to Don Juan. He begun 

To hear new words, and to repeat them; but 
Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love— as you would be, no doubt, 
With a young benefactress, — so was she 
Just in the way we very often see. 

CLXVIII. 

And every day by day-break— rather early 
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 

She came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in his nest; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

clxix. 

And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence, 

T was well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence ; 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 

Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good), 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. — 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: 
Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food; 

But who is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXI. 
When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 

A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 

Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size: 
But I have spoken of all this already — 

And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 
Weil — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 
Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 
Both were so young, and one so innocent, 

That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd 
To her, as 't were the kind of being sent, 

Of whom these two years she had nightly drcam'd, 
A something to be loved, a creature meant 

To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 
To render happy; all who joy would win 
Must share it, — happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXIII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 

To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake. 
To live with him for ever were too much ; 

But then the thought of parting made her quake : 
He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast 
Like a rich wreck— her first love and her last. 



CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain' d unknown within his craggy nook: 
At last her father's prows put out to sea, 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry off an Io, 
But three JAagusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 
Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 

Without even the incumbrance of a brother, 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass: 

I speak of christian lands in this comparison, 

Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 

(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say 
So much as to propose to take a walk, — 

For little had he wander'd since the day 
On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 

Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 

With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 

With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXxvni. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 

That spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 
Few things surpass old wine : and they may preach 

Who please, — the more because they preach in vain, — 
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, 
Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; 

The best of life is but intoxication: 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation; 
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion ! 
But to return, — get very drunk; and when 
You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you '11 know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king; 

For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow, 

Not the first sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow, 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 

Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 



5 9 o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXI. 

The coast — T think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss'd, 

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 

By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun, 

Thought daily service was her only mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky, 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they -wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 

Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 

Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 

They turn'd to rest; and, each clasped by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; 

They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low, 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss; 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
And beauty, all concentrating, like rays 

Into one focus kindled from above; 
Such kisses as belong to early days, 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 

Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 

By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 

Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
reckon'd; 

And if they had, they could not have secured 
The sum of their sensations to a second: 

They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 
As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 

Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung— 

Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. 



CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, yet not alone as they 

Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness, 

The silent ocean, and the star-light bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each other press, 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other : though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language there,- 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 

CXG. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 

Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 
Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; 
She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird; 
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, sbe 
Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCL 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 

And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion, 
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, — 
But by degrees their senses were restored, 
Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; 
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 
Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 
Alas! they were so young, so beautiful, 

So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
Was that in which the heart is always full, 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 
Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 
Of hell-fire— all prepared for people giving 
Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

GXCIII. 
Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 

So loving and so lovely— till then never, 
Excepting our first parents, such a pair 

Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; 
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 
And hell and purgatory— but forgot 
Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 
They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moon-light ; and her white arm clasps 
Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 

He hers, until they end in broken gasps; 
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique, 
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 



DON JUAN. 



5 9 , 



cxcv. 

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms, 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 

With all it granted and with all it grants. 

CXGVI. 

An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A devotee when soars the host in sight, 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor, when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 

CXCVII. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
All that it hath of life with us is living; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving, 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving; 

There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

cxcvur. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 

She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, 
Where nought upon their passion could intrude, 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXG1X. 

Alas! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone, 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet as real 
Torture is theirs— what they inflict they feel. 

CG. 

They 're right; for man, to man so oft unjust, 

Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; 

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond? 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 

CCI. 
Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 

Some mind their household, others dissipation, 
Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 

Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; 
Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 

Theirs being an unnatural situation, 
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 



CCII. 
Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this; 

Haidee was passion's child, born where the san 
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen: what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing — She had nought to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 

CCIII. 

And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat; 

How much it costs us! yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths; even conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim, 
So good — I wonder Casllereagh don't tax 'em. 

CCIV. 

And now 't was done — on the lone shore were plighted 
Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: 
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united, 
Their priest was solitude, and they were wed : 

And they were happy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

ccv. 

Oh love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh Love ! t hou art the very god of evil, 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

CCVI. 
Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, 

And jestest with the brows of mightiest men : 
Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 

Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen ; 
Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 

Such worthies time will never see again: — 
Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 
They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCVII. 
Thou makest philosophers : there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories, quite practicable too; 
If only from the devil they would insure us 

How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), 
« Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us ! » 
So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 
But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 't is her boon ; 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures? 



5 9 2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CCIX. 
I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
Of such quicksilver clay, that in his breast 

No permanent foundation can be laid: 
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 

And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Miian, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

GCX. 
But soon philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper' d « think of every sacred tie ! » 
« I will, my dear philosophy! » I said, 

« But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven! her eye! 
I '11 just inquire if she be wife or maid, 

Or neither — out of curiosity. » 
« Stop! » cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 
(Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian) — 

CGXI. 

« Stop ! » so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration due where nature's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of adoration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the « beau ideal. » 

CCXII. 
'T is the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, 

* Drawn from the stars and filter'd through the skies, 
Without which life would be extremely dull ; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 

For surely if we always could perceive 
In the same object graces quite as killing 

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
'T would save us many a heart-ache, many a shilling 

(For we must get them any how, or grieve) ; 
Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, 
How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver! 

CCXIV. 

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
But changes night and day too, like the sky; 

Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
And darkness and destruction, as on high; 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 

Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, 

Which make the English climate of our years. 

CCXV. 
The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a while 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Bage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction. 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd « central. » 



CCXVL 
In the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, 

That being about the number I '11 allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow ; 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO III. 



Hail, Muse ! et ccetera. — We left Juan sleeping, 

Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 

And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 

Or knew who rested there ; a foe to rest 
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 

II. 

Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 

With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh? 

As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers, 
And place them on their breast— but place to die : 

Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 

Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

HI. 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 

In all the others all she loves is love, 
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 

And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her : 

One man alone at first her heart can move ; 
She then prefers him in the plural number, 
Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

IV. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers), 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted : 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, 
But those who have ne'er end with only one. 

V. 

T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine, 

Although they both are born in the same clime ; 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour 
Down to a very homely household savour. 



DON JUAN. 



5 9 3 



VI. 

There 's something of antipathy, as t were, 
Between their present and their future state; 

A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 

Is used, until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair? 

The same things change their names at such a rate : 

For instance — passion in a lover 's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; 

They sometimes also get a little tired 
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admired, 
Yet 't is « so nominated in the bond,» 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 

Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 
But only give a bust of marriages; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 

He would have written sonnets all his life? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 

All comedies are ended by a marriage; 
The future states of both are left to faith, 

For authors fear description might disparage 
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 

And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; 
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 
They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 



The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 

Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 

Of fault or temper ruiu'd the connexion 

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar) ; 

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's fantasy, 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 
Haidee and Juan were not married, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 
Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wish they were. 
Then, if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut 

The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 
Before the consequences grow too awful — 
T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 



XIII. 

Yet they were happy — happy, in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires; 
But, more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's. 
When we have what we like, t is hard to miss ir, 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

XIV. 

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 

For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 't is nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took a humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 

And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important captures ; 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 

Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain' d 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 
Some he disposed of off Gape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold 
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 

Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old); 
The rest — save here and there some richer one, 

Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 
Were link'd alike; as for the common people, he 
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandize was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey, 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot tray, 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant; 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 
He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance : 
These, to secure in this strong blowing weather, 
He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 

Theu having settled his marine affairs, 

Despatching single cruisers here and there, 

His vessel having need of some repairs, 

He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 

Continued still her hospitable cares; 

But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 

And rough with reefs, which ran out many a mile, 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

75. 



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xx. 

And there he went ashore -without delay, 
Having no custom-house or quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the way 
About the time and place where he had been : 

He left his ship to be hove down next day, 
With orders to the people to careen; 

So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 

In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXL 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
After long travelling by land or water, 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family 's a serious matter 

(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires— 
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter) ; 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 

And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 
Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 

Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 
The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 

To his memory, and two or three young misses 
Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 
And that his Argus bites him by— -the breeches. 

XXIV. 
If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 
But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
He may resume his amatory care 

As cavalier servente, or despise her; 
And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 
Write odes on the inconstancy of woman. 

XXV. 

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship with a married lady — 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connexions the most steady, 

And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen) — 

Yet for all that keep not too long away; 

I 've known the absent wrong' d four times a-day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad, 
Or that of any other strong emotion; 

He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 



XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 
He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 

The distant dog-bark; and perceived between 
The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, 

The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 
Of arms (in the East all arm), and various dyes 
Of colour' d garbs, as bright as butterflies. 

XXVIII. 
And as the spot where they appear he nears, 

Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 
He hears — Alas ! no music of the spheres, 

But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 
A melody which made him doubt his ears, 

The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; 
A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 
A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 
And still more nearly to the place advancing, 

Descending rather quickly the declivity, 
Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
glancing, 
Midst other indications of festivity, 
Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 

Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 
To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 
And further on a group of Grecian girls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 
Were strung together like a row of pearls ; 

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too having 
Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 

(The least of which would set ten poets raving) ; 
Their leader sang — and bounded to her song, 
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 
And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 

Small social parties just begun to dine; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; 

Above them their dessert grew on its vine, 
The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce jduck'd their mellow store. 

XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 

While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head majestically tame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow as if in act to butt, and then, 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 

Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 

The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; 

So that the philosophical beholder 

Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should e'er grow older. 



DON JUAN. 



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XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate grey circle of old smokers, 

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, 

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, 

Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 

Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact) 

XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses, 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastime in which no offence is. 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner: 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
That lures to flay alive the young beginner. 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 



XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd; 

And long he paused to re-assure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know — (alas ! how men will lie) — 
That a report — (especially the Greeks) — 

Avouch'd his death (such people never die), 
And put his house in mourning several weeks. 

But now their eyes and also lips were drv: 

The bloom too had return'd to Iiaidee's cheeks ; 

Her tears too being return'd into their fount, 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond measure. 

Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 

Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure ; 

'T was wonderful how things went on improving, 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 

He flew into a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

To teach his people to be more exact, 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 



XLI. 

You're wrong. — He was the mildest manner'd man 
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 

With such true breeding of a gentleman, 
You never could divine his real thought ; 

No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
Gird more deceit within a petticoat : 

Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 

He was so great a loss to good society. 

XL1I. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 

He asked the meaning of this holiday? 
The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 

XLIII. 

And, without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

« Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare. » 

A second hiccup'd, « Our old master 's dead, 
You'd better ask our mistress, who's his heir.» 

>< Our mistress !» quoth a third: « Our mistress ! — pooh 

You mean our master — not the old, but new.» 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell — 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

The expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
His smile, requested one of tkem to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron, 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLV. 

« I know not,» quoth the fellow, « who or what 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care: 
But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat, 

And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare; 
And if you are not satisfied with that, 

Direct your questions to my neighbour there ; 
He 11 answer all for better or for worse. 
For none likes more to hear himself converse. »' 

XLVI. 
I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 

And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations, 

E'er saw her most polite of sons exceediug : 
He bore these sneers against his near relations. 

His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding, 
The insults too of every servile glutton, 
Who all the time were eating up his mutton. 

XLYII. 
Now in a person used to much command — 

To bid men come, and go, and come again — 
To see his orders done too out of hand, 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain— 
It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 

Yet such things are, which I cannot explain, 
Though doubtless he who can command himself 
Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLVIH. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
Ele lay coil'd like the boa in the wood. 

With him it never was a word and blow ; 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood ; 

But in his silence there was much to rue, 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 

On to the house, but by a private way, 
So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 

So little they expected him that day ; 
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 
But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, 
This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning, 

L. 

If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Which God forbid !) or some, or a great many ; 

For instance, if a husband or his wife 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any), 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, 
The present weather would be much mere rainy — 

Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 

Would share most probably its resurrection. 

LI. 

He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying, 

And harder for the heart to overcome 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying: 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 

And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 

He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome : there he long had dwelt, 

There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIII. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 

Of mild demeanour though of savage mood ; 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure as in food ; 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something better, if not wholly good: 

His country's wrongs, and his despair to save her, 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 

The wild seas and wild men with whom he cruised, 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 



LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the golden fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days : 

'T is true he had no ardent love for peace; 
Alas! his country show'd no path to praise : 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

Lvn. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed 
On that beloved daughter; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure affection unopposed: 

There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness. 

LVIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock: 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging — 
Their fury being spent by its own shock — 

Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is a hard, although a common case, 

To find our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves reform'd in finer clay; 

Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 

But in good company — the gout and stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner) ; 
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her) ; 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). 
A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
And stood within his hall at eventide; 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every side; 

Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, 

Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 



DON JUAN. 



5 97 



LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes; 

Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats, 
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use. 

LXIII. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine China cups came in at last — 

Gold cups of filagree, made to secure 

The hand from burning, underneath them placed; 

Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too, were boil'd 

Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
Of velvet pannels, each of different hue, 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid : 
And round them ran a yellow border too ; 

The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 

From poets, or the moralists, their betters. 

LXV. 

These oriental writings on the wall, 

Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors adapted to recal, 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, 
And took his kingdom from him. — You will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd methodistic or eclectic — 

(For that 's the name they like to pray beneath) — 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
Are things that really take away the breath, 

And show that late hours, wine, and love, are able 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

Lxvir. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new; 

The velvet cushions— (for a throne more meet) — 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXYIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 

Had done their work of splendour, Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favourites — (that 's 

To say, by degradation) — mingled there, 

As plentiful as in a courl or fair. 



LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony, inlaid 
With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver : by command, 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 

LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow; 
Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow : 
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as pease, 

All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 
And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm. 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
And clinging as if loth to lose its hold, 

The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 

That e'er by precious metal was held in. 2 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd, 3 

Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand; 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 

Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; 

Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 

About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, and would conceal 
Her person 4 if allow'd at large to run; 

And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began 

To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 

Bound her she made an atmosphere of life, 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies, 

And pure as Psyche, ere she grew a wife— 
Too pure even for the purest human ties; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged 
(It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 

For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed," 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 

Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 

The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 

Thev could not look more rosy than before. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair: 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 

On mountain tops more heavenly white than her : 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says 't is very silly 

« To gild refined gold, or paint the lily.» 

LXXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
But a white baracan, and so transparent, 

The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 

His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't 

Surmounted as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

LXXVIII. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 

Which made their new establishment complete; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet, 

And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, 

He being paid to satirize or flatter, 

As the psalm says, « inditing a good matter. » 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present, and abused the past, 
Beversing the good custom of old days ; 

An eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise. 

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
By his seeming independent in his lays; 

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 

With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw. 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes, 
And always changed as true as any needle, 

His polar star being one which rather ranges, 
And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle ; 

So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
And being fluent (save indeed when feed ill), 

He lied with such a fervour of intention — 

There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it, 

The « vates irritabilis» takes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it; 

Even good men like to make the public stare: — 
But to my subject — let me see — what was it? 

Oh! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dresa, and mode 
Of living in their insular abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow, 
Had been the favourite of full many a mess 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow ; 
And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed of popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause, 



LXXXIII. 

But now being lifted into high society, 

And having pick'd up several odds and ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety, 
He deem'd being in a lone isle among friends, 

That, without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends; 

And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He 'd travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations! 

And, having lived with people of all ranks, 
Had something ready upon most occasions — 

Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations; 

To « do at Borne as Bomans do,» a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing, 

He gave the different nations something national; 

'T was all the same to him — «God save the King,» 
Or « Ca 2>a,» according to the fashion all. 

His muse made increment of any thing, 
From the high lyrical to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 

In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
la Spain, he 'd make a ballad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 

Would be old Goethe's — (see what says de Stael); 
In Italy, he'd ape the «Trecentisti;» 
In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' « Islands of the Blest.» 

The mountains look on Marathon, 

And Marathon looks on the sea: 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
For, standing on the Persian's grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set where were they? 



DON JUAN. 



5 99 



And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic hosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

'T is something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What ! silent still ? and silent all? 

Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, « Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come !» 
'T is but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells : 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 



But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine: 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 



LXXXVII. 

Thus sung, or w ould, or could, or should have sung, 

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 

Yet in these times he might have done much worse : 
His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 

And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, 
And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. 

LXXXYIII. 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, 
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. 
Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses, 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages : to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his ! 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank. 

His station, generation, even his nation, 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration, 
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station. 
In digging the foundation of a closet, 
May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

XC. 

And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind. 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 

Milton 's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine; 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, 

We 're told this great high priest of all the Xine 
Was whipt at college— a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs Milton left his house. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCII. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes ; 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts; 

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie -well describes) ; 
Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XC1IL 

All are not moralists like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of « Pantisocracy ;» 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegado vigour, 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography; 

A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the « Excursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

XCV. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 

Between his own and others' intellect; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, 
Are things which in this century don't strike 

The public mind, so few are the elect; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 

XCVI. 

But let me to my story : I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
Leaving my people to proceed alone, 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

XCVII. 
I know that what our neighbours. call « longueurs™ 

(We 've not so good a word, but have the tiling 
In that complete perfection which ensures 

An epic from Bob Southey every spring), — 
Form not the true temptation which allures 

The reader ; but 't would not be hard to bring 
Some fine examples of the epopee , 
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

XCVIII. 

We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps ; 

We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, 
To show with what complacency he creeps, 

With his dear « Waggoners,™ around his lakes; 
He wishes for « a boat" to sail the deeps — 

Of Ocean ? — no, of air ; and then he makes 
Another outcry for « a little boat,» 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 



XCIX. 
If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain, 

And Pegasus runs restive in his « waggon,* 
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? 

Or pray Medea for a single dragon? 
Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 

C. 

« Pedlars,« and « boats," and « waggons !» Oh ! ye shades 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 

The « little boatman" and his « Peter Bell» 

Can sneer at him who drew « Achitophel !» 

CI. 

T our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone, 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired; — 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 

CII. 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer. 

CI 1 1. 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
xlve Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty dove — 
What though 't is but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 't is too like. 

CIV. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
In nameless print, that I have no devotion ; 

But set those persons down with me to pray, 
And you shall see who has the properest notion 

Of getting into heaven the shortest way; 
My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 

Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great whole, 

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

CV. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Bavenna's immemorial wood, 

Booted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 
To where the last Caasarian fortress stood, 

Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thec! 



DON JUAN. 



60 



cvr. 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along : 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, 

Which learn'd from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 

CYII. 
Oh Hesperus! 5 thou bringest all good things — 

Home to the -weary, to the hungry cheer, 
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 

The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer; 
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 

Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CV1II. 

Soft hour! 6 -which -wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those -who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; 
Or fills -with love the pilgrim on his -way, 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
Seeming to -weep the dying day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy -which our reason scorns 1 

Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 

CIX. 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, 

Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the -world overjoy' J, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb :7 
Perhaps the -weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

CX. 

But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, 

Or any s.uch like sovereign buffoons, 
To do with the transactions of my hero, 

More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's: 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of many « wooden spoons» 
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honours in degrees). 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do — 

'T is being tco epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two : 
They 11 never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 

And then as an improvement 't will be shown : 

I '11 prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 

From Aristotle passim.— See Ylovoiur^. 



CANTO IV. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end -. 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race; he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning ; 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 

II. 

But time, which brings all beings to their level, 

And sharp adversity, will teach at last 
Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the devil, 

That neither of their intellects are vast : 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 

We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; 
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

III. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held the same opinion : 

They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 

Now my sere fancy « falls into the yellow 
Leaf,» and imagination droops her pinion, 

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 

Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, which we must steep 

First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep. 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

V. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trace it in this poem every hue : 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when 1 would be very fine ; 
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 

Unless it was to be a moment merry — 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 

Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, 

And revell'd in the fancies of the time. 

True knights,chaste dames, huge giants,kings despotic 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

76 



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YRON'S WORKS. 



VII. 

How I have treated it, I do not know — 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me 

Who have imputed such designs as show, 

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see : 

But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, — 
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 

Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 

And tells me to resume my story here. 

VIII. 

Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own hearts' most sweet society; 

Even Time, the pitiless, in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 

Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 

The blank grey was not made to blast their hair. 
But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, 

They were all summer : lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 

Thus was another Eden ; they were never 
Weary, unless when separate : the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 
Damm'd from its fountain— the child from the knee 

And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, 
Would wither less than these two torn apart; 
Alas! there is no instinct like the heart- 
XL 
The heart— which may be broken- Happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

XII. 

« Whom the gods love die young,» was said of yore, 1 
And many deaths do they escape by this : 

The death of friends, and, that which slays even more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 

Except mere breath : and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 

The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 

Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; 

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them: 
They found no fault with time, save that he fled ; 

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 



XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than words, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 

To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard : 

XV. 

All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
And children still they should have ever been ; 

They were not made in the real world to fill 
A busy character in the dull scene ; 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 

XVI. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round: 
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys ; 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

XVIII. 
Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
S)ut was in them their nature or their fate : 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding, 
So that there was no reason for their loves, 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset ; 't is an hour 

Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
For it had made thern what they were: the power 

Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, 
When happiness had been their only dower, 

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 
Channel with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
The past still welcome as the present thought. 



DON JUAN. 



6o3 



XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 

And thus some boding flash'd through either frame, 

And caJl'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone. 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 

Which makes not others smile ; then turn'd aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride. 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

« If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least shall not survive to see. ■> 

XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

And no doubt of all methods 't is the best : 
Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss : 

I have tried botli ; so those who would a part take 

May chuse between the headache and the heartache. 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice, 
Womea or wine, you '11 have to undergo; 

Doth maladies are taxes on our joys : 

But which to chuse I really hardly know ; 

And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many reasons show, 

And then decide, without great wrong to either, 

It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other, 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, 
All that the best can mingle and express, 

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 
And love too much, and yet can not love less, 

Cut almost sanctify the sweet excess 

liy the immortal wish and power to bless. 

XXVII. 

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 

Why did they not then die? — they had lived too long, 
I Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; 

Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong. 
i The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
| For beings passionate as Sappho's song: 
i hove was born with them, in them, so intense, 
j It was their very spirit — not a sense. 



XXVI II. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Called social, where all vice and hatred are : 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took ; 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd, like a brook, 
A wordless music ; and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air: 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 

Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 

Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be) 

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 

Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, 

Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. 

Anon — she was released, and theu she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
Aud something roll'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she must still pursue, howe'er afraid; 
T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp 'd, 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed : in a cave she stood; its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 

Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and 
lurk ; 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 

Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 

XXXIV. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now !) 

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart; and the sea-dirges low 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 

And that brief dream appear' d a life too long. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



xxxv. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew— 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 

Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she there? 

'T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

liim whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well : 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 

And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, « Within my call 

A thousand scimitars await the word ; 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword. « 

XXXVIII. 

Aud Haidee clung around him : « Juan, t is — 
'T is Lambro — 't is my father ! Kneel with me— 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
Oh! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.» 

XXXIX. 

High aud inscrutable the old man stood, 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 

Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply; 

Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 

In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 

On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 

XL. 

« Young man, your sword ;» so Lambro once more said : 
Juan replied, « Not while this arm is free.» 

The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread ; 
And, drawing from his belt a pistol, he 

Replied, «Your blood be then on your own head !» 
•Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 

'T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock— 

And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 

It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
! A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 
j A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 

If you have got a former friend for foe : 
Cut after being fired at once or twice, 
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 



XLI I. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 

Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath, 

When Haidee threw herself her boy before 

Stern as her sire : « On me,» she cried, « let death 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 

He found— but sought not. I have pledged my faith; 

I love him— I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness— know your daughter's too.j» 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 

And tenderness, and infancy : but now 
She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 

Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow; 
Aud tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 

She drew up to her height, as if to show 
A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 
How like they look'd ! the expression wasthe same ; 

Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 

For she too was as one who could avenge, 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame : 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features aud 
Their stature differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of their hands 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 

flis weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, 
And looking on her, as to look her through, 

« Not /,» he said, « have sought this stranger's ill ; 
Not / have made this desolation : few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill, ; 
But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVII. 

<■< Let him disarm ; or, by my father Vhead, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball !» 

lie raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
And blew ; another answer'd to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led, 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 

He gave the word, « Arrest or slay the Frank. » 

XLVIII. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter ; while compress'd within his grasp, 

'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 

His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 

The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 



DON JUAN. 



6o5 



XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open; but 
The third, a "wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in : so well, ere you could look, 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 

Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 

Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach' d some galliots, placed in line ; 
On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 

LI. 
The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 

And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 

Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 
Just at the very time when he least broods 

On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 
Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 
And all because a lady fell in love. 

L1I. 
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea ! 
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; 

For if my pure libations exceed three, 
I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 

That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 
'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, 
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 

LIU. 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac ! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack 

(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 
I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded? 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 

And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness . 

LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er; 
But there too many a poison-tree has root, 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 

Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan, 

And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 



LVT. 
Afrie is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled, full of power 
For good or evil, burning from its birth, 

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 
And like the soil beneath it will bring forth: 

Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower : 
But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, 
Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVIL 

Her daughter, temper'd witli a milder ray, 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 

Had held till now her soft and milky way; 
But, overwrought with passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LVIII. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; 

His blood was running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own : 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst, 2 and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled Avith the deep blood which ran o'er; 

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 

O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids bore 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; 

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 

But she defied all means they could employ, 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill. 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead; 

Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred 

Xew thoughts of life, for it s'eem'd full of soul, 

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 

Their energy like life forms all their fame, 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Bather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 



6o6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXI1I. 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token without knowing what; 

She saw them watch her without asking why, 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; 

Not speechless though she spoke not : not a sigh 
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away; 
She recognised no being, and no spot, 

However dear or cherish'd in their day: 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay; 
And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, seem'd full of fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

At last a slave bethought her of a harp; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, 
And. he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, 

And sung of love, the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being; in a gushiug stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXV1I. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close : 

Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 

Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; 
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence 

Avail'd for either; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last, 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black— = 

Oh! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 



LXX. 

She died, but not alone; she held within 

A second principle of life, which might 
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 

But closed its little being without light, 
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 

Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight; 
In vain the dews of heaven descend above 
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she; never more on her 

Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure, till they are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 

Long with her destiny : but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXH. 

That isle is now all desolate aud bare, 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay: 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair — 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 

Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 
With her sire's story makes the night less long; 

Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her. 
If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 

A heavy price must all pay who thus err, 
In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 
For, soon or late, Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 
But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 

And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 
I don't much like describing people mad, 

For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 
Besides, I 've no more on this head to add : 

And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 
We '11 put about and try another tack 
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 
Wounded and fetter'd, « cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 

Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
Could altogether call the past to mind; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea, 
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind : 

The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee— 
Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 
But now was not much pleased with Gape Sigasum. 

LXXVI. 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 

Eutomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles : 
They say so— (Bryant says the contrary :) 

And further downward, tall and towering, still is 
The tumulus— of whom— Heaven knows ! t' may be 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — 

All heroes who, if living still, would slay us. 



DON JUAN. 



bo 



LXXYII. 

High barrows, without marble or a name, 
A vast, untiil'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Seamauder (if 't is he), remain; 

The situation seems still form 'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses; here and there 

Some little hamlets with new names uncouth; 
Some shepherds (unlike Paris), led to stare 

A moment at the European youth 
Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; 

A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 
Extremely takeu with his own religion, 
Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 
Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 

From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; 
Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 

O'ershadovv'd there by many a hero's grave : 
Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 

A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 
No very satisfactory information 
About his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians — as they were, in fact; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one; a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation, — had not been attack'd, 

In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate, 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 3 

LXXXI. 
Dy one of these, the buffo of the party, 

Juan was told about their curious case; 
For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 

Still kept his spirits up — at least his face; 
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 

And bore him with some gaiety and grace, 
Showing a much more reconciled demeanour 
Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXX1I. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, «Our Machiavelian impresario, 

Making a signal off some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario! 

We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario; 

But, if the sultan has a taste for song, 

We will revive cur fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

«The prima donna, though a little old, 

And haggard with a dissipated life, 
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 



Has some good notes; and then the tenoi 
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold; 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 
By carrying off Count Caesar Cicogua 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 



wife, 



LXXXIV. 

« And then there are the dancers; there 's the Nini, 
With more than one profession gains by all; 

Then there 's that laughing slut, the Pellegrini, 
She too was fortunate last carnival, 

And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul : 

And then there 's the Grotesca— such a dancer! 

Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. 

LXXXV. 

« As for the figuranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 

A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 
The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; 

There 's one, though tall, and suffer than a pike, 
Yet has a sentimental kind of air, 

Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour; 

The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 

LXXXYI. 

« As for the men, they are a middling set; 

The musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
Cut, being qualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment get; 

His singing I no further trust can place in : 
From all the pope 4 makes yearly, 't would perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the tliird sex. 

LXXXYII. 

« The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; 

In fact, he had no singing education, 

An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow ; 

Cut being the prima donna's near relation, 

Who swore his voice was very rich and meliow, 

They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe 

An ass was practising recitative. 

LXXXYII 1 . 

« 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 

My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — you 
Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 

To whom the opera is by no means new: 
You 've heard of Raucticanti?— I 'm the man; 

The time may come when you may hear me too; 
You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there— do go. 

LXXXIX. 
« Our barytone I almost had forgot, 

A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; 
With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 
He always is complaining of his lot, 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 
In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, 
Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.» 

XC. 
Here Kaucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad births; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all, 

From the blue skies derived a doubie blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun), 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 



Go8 



EYRON'S WORK; 



XCT. 

They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 
Waiting for his sublimity's firman— 

The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

Which every hody does without who can, — 

More to secure them in their naval cells, 
Lady to lady, well as man to man, 

Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple 

For the slave-market of Constantinople. 

XCII. 

It seems when this allotment was made out, 

There chanced to be an odd male and odd female, 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
If the soprano might be doom'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 

Was Juan, who— an awkward thing at his age — 

Pair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debate, 

That each puil'd different ways with many an oath, 

« Arcades ambo,» id est — blackguards both. 

XCIV. 

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the March of old Ancona, 

With eyes that look'd into the very soul 

(And other chief points of a « bella donna»), 

Bright — and as black and burning as a coal; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone ; 

Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 

Especially when added to the power. 

XCV. 
But all that power was wasted upon him, 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; 

And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVI. 

No matter; we should ne'er too much inquire, 

But facts are facts, — no knight could be more true, 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire; 

We will omit the proofs, save one or two. 

'T is said no one in hand « can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus,)) but few 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 
Here I might enter on a chaste description, 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But hear that several people take exception 

At the first two books having too much truth; 
Therefore I '11 make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
To pass, than those two cantos into families. 



XCVIII. 

'T is all the same to me, I 'm fond of yielding, 
And therefore leave them to the purer page 

Of Smollet, Prior, Anosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an age. 

I once had great alacrity in wielding 
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 

And recollect the time when all this cant 

Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 

XCIX. 

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; 

But at this hour 1 wish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble, 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to take a lease, 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long, 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

C. 
Of poets who come down to us through distance 

Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame, 
Life seems the smallest portion of existence; 

Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 

From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow, — 
But after all 't is nothing but cold snow. 

CL 
And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 

And love of glory 's but an airy lust, 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

AVho would, as 't were, identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction which, entombing all, 

Leaves nothing till the coming of the just — 
Save change : I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome. 

CIL 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 

Until the memory of an age is fled, 

And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom : 

Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? 

Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 

And lose their own in universal death. 

cm. 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 

Where perish' d in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix! 

A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn, 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 

Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 

While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 5 

CIV. 

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column. 
The time must come when both, alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 



DON JUAN. 



6o( 



CY. 
With human blood that column -was cemented, 

With human filth that column is defiled, 
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented, 

To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd. 
Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 

Should ever he those blood-hounds, from whose wild 
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards; though fame is smoke, 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; 

And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 

Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, 

Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 

Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

CYII. 
If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative, 
Men who partake all passions as they pass, 

Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
Their images again, as in a glass, 

And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

GVIil. 

Oh! ye, who make the fortunes of all books! 

Benign ceruleans of the second sex! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your « imprimatur" will ye not annex? 
What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
Ah! must I then the only minstrel be 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea? 

CfX. 
What, can I prove «a lion» then no more? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh «I can't get out,» like Yorick's starling. 
Why then I '11 swear, as poet Wordy swore 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling), 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 

CX. 

Oh! « darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,» 

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 

And I, ye learned ladies, say of you; 

They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why, 

I have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 

Bound the patrician left-legs, which adorn 

The festal midnight and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures : 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 
And — but no matter, all those things are over. 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover: 

I know one woman of that purple school, 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 



CXII. 

Humboldt, « the first of travellers,)) but not 

The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
Invented, by some name I have forgot, 

As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
An airy instrument, with which he sought 

To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
By measuring « the intensity of blue :» 
Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you! 

CXIII. 

But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall : 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, 

Were landed in the market, one and all, 
And there, with Georgians, Bussians, and Circassians, 
Bought up for different purposes and passions. 

CXIY. 

Some went off dearly: fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 

Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawiers, 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven; 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West-Indian market scarce would bring 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
What 't was ere abolition; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king : 

The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 

Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 

How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the command of crews 

As renegadoes; while in hapless group, 
Hoping no very old vizier might chuse, 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim. 

CXVII. 

All this must be reserved for further song; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant 
(Because this canto has become too long), 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 

But could not for the muse of me put less in 't : 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 



IO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO V. 



When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland, 
And praise their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, 

They little think what mischief is in hand; 
The greater their success the -worse it proves, 

As Ovid's verse may make you understand; 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
Except in such a -way as not to attract; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd . 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 

III. 

The European with the Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream, 1 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four; 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam; 

The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar; 

The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of « Mary,» 
For once it was a magic sound to me, 

And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
Where I beheld what never was to be ; 

All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : 

Cut I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 

Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 

T is a grand sight, from off «the Giant's Grave,» 2 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; 

There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
When nights are equal, but not so the days; 

The Parcae then cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't; 

Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won't. 



VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 

Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged ; 

The negroes more philosophy displav'd, — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 

As most at his age are, of hope, and health; 

Yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth : 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 

His ligure, and the splendour of his dress, 

Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 

X. 

Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted: 

Some bought the jet, whiie others chose the pale. 

It chanced, amongst the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 

With resolution in his dark grey eye, 

Next Juan stood, till some might chuse to buy. 

XI. 

He had an English look; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow a little mark'd with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; 

And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 

XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of a high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the woe, 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape — a thing of course. 

XIII. 

« My boy!» said he, « amidst this motley crew 
Of Georgians, Bussians, Nubians, and what not, 

All ragamuffins differing but in hue, 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 

The only gentlemen seem I and you, 
So let us be acquainted, as we ought : 

If I could yield you any consolation, 

T would give me pleasure: — Pray, what is your nation! » 



DON JUAN. 



XIV. 

When Juan answer'd « Spanish !» he replied, 
« I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak, 

But that's her way with all men till they 're tried : 
But never mind,— she'll turn, perhaps, next week; 

She has served me also much the same as you, 

Except that I have found it nothing new.» 

XV. 

« Pray, sir,» said Juan, « if I may presume, 

What brought you here ?»—« Oh ! nothing very rare — 
Six Tartars and a drag-chain »— «To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question's fair, 
Is that which I would learn. » — « ] served for some 

Months with the Russian army here and there, 
And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widin.» 

XVI. 
« Have you no friends? »—« I had— but, by God's blessing, 

Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
I have answer'd all your questions without pressing, 

And you an equal courtesy should show. » — 
« Alas!» said Juan, « 't were a tale distressing, 

And long besides.))— « Oh ! if 't is really so, 
You're right on both accounts to hold your tongue; 
A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 

XVII. 
« But droop not : Fortune at your time of life, 

Although a female moderately fickle, 
Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife) 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive too with our fate were such a strife 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men. » 

XVIII. 

« Tis not,» said Juan, « for my present doom 
I mourn, but for the past;— I loved a maid: » 

He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom; 
A single tear upon his eyelash staid 

A moment, and then dropp'd ; « but to resume, 
'Tis not my present lot, as I have said, 

Which I deplore so much; for I have borne 

Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 

« On the rough deep. But this last blow— » and here 
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 

« 4y,» quoth his friend, « I thought it would appear 
That there had been a lady in the case ; 

And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
Such as I too would shed if in your place : 

I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 

And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 

« My third»— «Your third ! » quoth Juan, turning round; 

«You scarcely can be thirty : have you three ?» 
« No— only two at present above ground : 

Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !» 

« Well, then, your third,» said Juan; « what did she? 
She did not run away, too, did she, sir?» 
« No , faith.»— ^What then ?» — « I ran away from her.» 



XXI. 

«You take things coolly, sir,» said Juan. « Why,» 
Replied the other, « what can a man do? 

There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have yanish'd. All, when life is new, 

Commence with feelings warm and prospects high; 
But time strips our illusions of their hue, 

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 

Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 

XXII. 

«'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, 

Or fresher, brighter, but, the year gone through, 

This skin must go the way too of all flesh, 
Or sometimes only wear a week or two. 

Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh; 
Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 

Where still we flutter on for pence or praise. » 

XXIII. 

« All this is very fine, and may be true,» 

Said Juan ; « but I really don't see how 
It betters present times with me or you.» 

«No!» quoth the other; « yet you will allow 
By setting things in their right point of view, 

Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now, 
We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
May teach us better to behave when masters." 

XXIV. 

« Would we were masters now, if but to try 

Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,» 

Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 

«Heav'nhelpthescholarwhom his fortunesendshere!>' 

"Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,» 

Rejoin'd the other, « when our bad luck mends here: 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 

I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us ! 

XXV. 

« But after all, what is our present state? 

'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot. 
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 

To their own whims and passions, and what not; 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart. » 

XXVI. 

Just now a black old neutral personage 

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 

The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures : 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 



6(2 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



XXVIII. 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 

First but for one, and after for the pair; 

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too— so they did! 

As though they were in a mere christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling, 

And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 

Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
And then the merchant, giving change and signing 
Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good; 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one, 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says « No;» he tells you that Candide 

Found life most tolerable after meals: 
He 's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 

Repletion rather adds to what he feels; 
Unless he's drunk, and then no doubt he's freed 

From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 
Amnion's (ill pleased with one world and one father); 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two, 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish and soup, by some side dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 

XXXIII. 

The other evening ('t was on Friday last)— 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat was about me cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a shot — 't was eight o'clock scarce past — 

And running out as fast as I was able, 3 
I found the military commandant 
Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. 

XXXIV. 

Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, 

They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him there 
To perish on the pavement : so I had 

Him borne into the house and up the stair, 
And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 

More circumstances? vain was every care • 
The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 4 



XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; 

And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befel, 

So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, 
and liver, 
He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: — 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 
«Can this be death? then what is life or death? 

'Speak!' but he spoke not: 'wake!' but still he slept : 
But yesterday and who had mightier breath? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe: he said, as the centurion sailh, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum.» 

XXXVII. 
And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 

With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 
To gaze once more on the commanding clay 

Which for the last though not the first time bled: 
And such an end! that he who many a day 

Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, 
The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 

XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 

Those honourable scars which brought him fame ; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view- 
But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 

Perhaps even more attention than is due 

From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 

And there we go : — but where ? five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far! 

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed? 

Can every element our elements mar? 

And air — earth — water — fire, live — and we dead? 

IFe, whose minds comprehend all things? No more— 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 

As fast as oars could pull and water float. 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 

Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
Up in a little creek below a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and 

He led them onward, first through a low thicket 

Flank'd by large groves which tovver'd on either hand : 

They almost lost their wav, and had to pick it — 
For night was closing ere they came to land. 

The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 

Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 



DON JUAN. 



6i3' 



XLTT. 

As they were plodding on their winding way, 

Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth 

(Of which I miglit have a good deal to say, 
There being no such profusion in the North 

Of oriental plants, « et cetera, » 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 

Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 

Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks) : 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion ; — 't was the same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 

« Methinks,» said he — « it would be no great shame 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free; 

Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head, 

And march away — 'l were easier done than said.» 

XLIV. 

« Yes,» said the other, « and when done, what then: 

How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 

And worse off than we hitherto have been; 
Besides, 1 'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 

XLV. 

« We must be near some place of man's abode ; 

For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 
With his two captives, by so queer a road, 

Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; 
A single cry would bring them all abroad : 

T is therefore better looking before leaping — 
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 
By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too.» 

XLVI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 

A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font : 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savour 

Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 

Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, 
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 

And put himself upon his good behaviour : 
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 

Said, « In Heaven's name let 's get some supper now, 

And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row.» 

XLVIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 

Some to men's feelings, others to their reason : 

The last of these was never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to teaze on, 

With arguments according to their « forte ;» 

But no one ever dreams of being short. 



XLIX. 

But I digress : of all appeals, — although 

I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 

Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 

More tender, as we every day behold, 
Thau that all-softening, over-powering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 

L. 

Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine: 
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 

No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared, 

Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 

And gazed around them to the left and right 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 

They follow'd close behind their sable gnide, 

Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside: 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, 

And a magnificent large hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

LTI- 

[ won't describe: description is my forte, 
But every fool describes in these bright days 

His wond'rous journey to some foreign court, 

And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport ; 

While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. 

Lilt 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 

And some seem'd much in love with their own dress ; 

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths of greater price or less; 

And several strutted, others slept, and some 

Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 5 

LIV. 

As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
But those who sate ne'er slirr'd in any wise : 

One or two stared the captives in the face, 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station, 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, 
On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 

Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, 6 
A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 

Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 
Some female head most curiously presumes 

To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 

As wondering what the devil noise that is. 



6i4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lvi. 

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 

Dut not enough to show the imperial halls 
In all the Hashing of their full array. 

Perhaps there 's nothing — I '11 not say appals, 
But saddens more hy night as well as day, 

Than an enormous room without a scul 

To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 

LVI I. 
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: 

In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 

The spots which were her realms for evermore; 
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built of yore, 
A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 
Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 

LVIII. 

A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening pass; 
Though certes by no means so grand a sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little: 
I grant you in a church 't is very well : 

What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 

Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill — 
And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell 

Methinks the storv of the tower of Rabel 

Might teach them this much better than I 'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 

A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 

Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
The people's awe and admiration raising ; 

'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 

And the calumniated Oueen Semiramis. 

LXI. 



LXII. 

But to resume, — should there be (what may not 
Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't, 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't 

(Though Claudius Rich, esquire, some bricks has got, 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't), 

Relieve the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you : 



LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 

Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 

Who give themselves to architecture wholly. 
We know where things and men must end at last; 

A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 
And « Et sepulcri immemor struis domos» 
Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

LX1V. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber : 

Though full of all things which could be desired, 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 

Of articles which nobody required. 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 

With furniture an exquisite apartment, 

Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant. 

LXV. 

It seem'd, however, but to open on 

A range or suite of further chambers, which 

Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich : 

Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they; carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish 

You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 

LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 

A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With all its stars : and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't the fault is not in me : 

LXVII. 

I -wish to be perspicuous; and the black, 

I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 
A quantity of clothes fit for the back 

Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
And of variety there was no lack — 

And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, 
He chose himself to point out what he thought 
Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 
The suit he thought most suitable to each 

Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 

And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 
But such as fit an Asiatic breech; 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, 
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 
In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. 

LXIX. 

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably attain both in the end, 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which Fortune plainly seem'd to recommend; 
And then he added, that he needs must say, 

«'T would greatly tend to better their condition, 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 



DON JUAN. 



6i5 



LXX. 

« For his own part, he really should rejoice 

To see them true believers, but no less 
Would leave his proposition to their choice.» 

The other, thanking him for this excess 
Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 

In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
« Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 
Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 

« For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite, 
And after swallowing down a slight refection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
wWill it?» said Juan, sharply; « Strike me dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head — 

LXXII. 

« Cut off a thousand heads, before — " — «Now pray, » 

Replied the other, « do not interrupt: 
You put rne out in what I had to say. 

Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd, 
I shall perpend if your proposal may 

Be such as I can properly accept: 
Provided always your great goodness still 
Remits the matter to our own free will.» 

LXXTir. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said, « Be so good 

As dress yourself — » and pointed out a suit 

In which a princess with great pleasure would 
Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 

As not being in a masquerading mood, 

Gave it a slight kick with his christian foot; 

And when the old negro told him to « Get ready,» 

Replied, « Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady.» 

LXXIV. 

«What you may be, I neither know nor care,» 

Said Baba, « but pray do as I desire ; 
I 've no more time nor many words to spare. » 

« At least,» said Juan, « sure I may inquire 
The cause of this odd travesty ?» — « Forbear," 

Said Baba, « to be curious: 't will transpire, 
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: 
I 've no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 

« Then if I do,» said Juan, « I '11 be ft « Hold !» 

Rejoin'd the negro, « pray be not provoking ; 

This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold, 
And you will find us not too fond of joking." 

«What, sir!» said Juan, « shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress !» But Baba, stroking 

The things down, said — « Incense me, and I call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 

« I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: 
A woman's, true, but then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — « What, though my 
soul loathes 
The effeminate garb?» — Thus after a short pause, 

Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
«What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 



LXXVII. 

And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
A pair of trowsers of flesh-colour'd silk; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd, 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; 

But, tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 

Which — as we say — or as the Scotch say, whilk, 

(The rhyme obliges me to this : — sometimes 

Kings arc not more imperative than rhymes)— 

lxxviii. 

Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward ; 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard ; 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 

He paused and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 

Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare, 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there ; 

And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 

LXXX. 

And now being femininely all array'd, 

With some small aid from scissars, paint, and tweezers, 
He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, « You see, sirs, 
A perfect transformation here display'd ; 

And now, then, you must come along with, me, sirs, 
That is — the lady :» — clapping his hands twice, 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

« You, sir,» said Baba, nodding to the one, 
Will please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper; but you, worthy christian nun, 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 

I say a thing it must at once be done. 

What fear you? think you this a lion's den ? 

Why 't is a palace, where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

« You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm.» 

« So much the better," Juan said, ;< for them : 
Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 

Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 
I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 

If any take me for that which I seem; 
So that I trust, for every body's sake, 
That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 
« Blockhead ! come on and see," quoth Baba; while 

Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile 

Upon the metamorphosis in view. 
« Farewell !» they mutually exclaim'd : « this soil 

Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.» 



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LXXXIV. 

« Farewell !» said Juan ; « should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite. » — « Farewell !» 

Replied the other; « though it grieves me sore; 
When we next meet we '11 have a tale to tell : 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once fell. » 

«Nay,»quoth the maid, « the Sultan's self shan't carry me, 

Unless his highness promises to marry me.» 

LXXXV. 

And thus they parted, each hy separate doors; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 

Tiil a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance towers; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

Lxxxvr. 

The giant door was broad, and bright and high, 
• Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; 
Warriors thereon were battling furiously • 

Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies; 
There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 

And in perspective many a squadron flies: 
It seems the work of times before the line 
Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 

LXXXVII. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 

Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 

Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 

O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 
The gate so splendid was in all its features,! 
You never thought about those little creatures, 

LXXXYIII. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then, 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 

Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey, 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; 
They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
They look'd so little, did strong things at times — 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
As is the custom of those eastern climes, 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; 

For mutes are generally used for that. 

XC. 

They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all : 
And, looking like two incubi, they glared 

As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 

Juan a moment, as this pair so small 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 

It was as if their little looks' could poison 

Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 



XGI. 

Before they entered, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: 

« If you could just contrive," he said, « to stint 
That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 

'T would be as well, and (though there 's not much 
in 't), 
To swing a little less from side to side, 

Which has at times an aspect of the oddest; 

And also, could you look a little modest, 
XCIT. 

'T would be convenient; for these mutes have eyes 
Like needles, -which might pierce those petticoats; 

And if they should discover your disguise, 

You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats; 

And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
To iind our way to Marmora without boats, 

Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 

A good deal practised here upon occasion. » 
XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 
Into a room still nobler than the last; 

A rich confusion form'd a disarray- 
In such sort, that the eye along it cast 

Could hardly carry any thing away, 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 

A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 

Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIY. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much; such things 

Occur in orient palaces, and even 
In the more chastened domes of western kings 

(Of which I 've also seen some six or seven), 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 

Much lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs and pictures, 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

XCY. 

In this imperial hall at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady. Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCYI. 

The lady, rising up with such an air 

As Venus rose with fiom the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem : 

And, raising up an arm, as moonlight fair, 
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep purple robe, and, speaking low, 

Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCYII. 

Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate: 

I d rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features; it would strike you blind 
Could I do justice to the full detail; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 



DON JUAN. 



xcvin. 

This much however, I may add — her years 

Were ripe, they might make six and twenty springs, 

But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 

Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots : true — tears 
And love destroy, and sapping sorrow wrings 

Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 

Ugly; for instance— Ninon de l'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike; like Juan, too, 

Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen: 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 

Which might have call'd Diana's chorus « cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 

C. 

They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 

But not by the same door through which came in 

Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
At some small distance, all he saw within 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
Marvel and praise : for both or none things win ; 

And I must say I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the « Nil admirari » 

CI. 

« Not to admire is all the art I know 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) 
To make men happy, or to keep them so;» 

(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago ; 

And thus Pope quotes the precept, tore-teach 
From his translation; but had none admired, 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CIT. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 

A second time desired him to kneel down 
And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim when 

He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
Drew himself up to his full height again, 

And said, «It grieved him, but he could not stoop 

To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.» 

cm. 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 

He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
About a bowstring — quite in vain; not yet 

Would Juan stoop, though 't were to Mahomet's bride ; 
There 's nothing in the world like etiquette, 

In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 

As also at the race and county balls. 

CIY. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 

To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
A thousand times of him had made an end; 

At length perceiving the «/oor» could not stand, 

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 



CV. 
Here was an honourable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise; 

And Juan now his willingness express'd 
To use all fit and proper courtesies, 

Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

CVI. 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more tliorough-bred s or fairer fingers 

No lips e'er left their transitory trace : 

On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CVII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 

And, looking on him with a sort cf smile, 
Took leave with such a face of satisfaction, 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
I know not what might be the lady's thought, 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 

The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

CIX. 
Her form had all the softness of her sex, 

Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
When he put on the cherub to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil: 
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 

Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
Yet somehow there was something somewhere wanting, 
As if she rather order'd than was granting. — 

CX. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did; that is a chain 

Was thrown as t were about the neck of you, — 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view: 
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet, 

As though they were quite conscious of her station — 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine). 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXII. 

« To hear and to obey» had been, from birth, 

The law of all around her; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will. 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : 

Judge, tbem, if her caprices e'er stood still. 
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion 
We should have found out the « perpetual motion. » 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought, 
Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 

It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And when't was found straightway the bargain closed : 

There was no end unto the things she bought, 
Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 

Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, 

The women pardon' d all except her face. 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 

Her eye in passing on his way to sale; 
She order'd him directly to be bought, 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 
In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 

Had his instructions where and how to deal : 
She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

cxv. 

His youth and features favour'd the disguise, 
And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 

As we may ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been tending : — 

She now conceived all difficulties past, 
And deem'd herself extremely condescending 

When being made her property at last, 
Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 

Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 
And merely saying, « Christian, canst thou love?» 
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

CXVII. 

And so it was, in proper time and place; 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, 
Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace, 

And left his cheeks as pale as snow-drops blowing: 
These words went through his soul like Arab spears, 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIII. 

She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking ; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 

A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter') 

To them 't is a relief, to us a torture. 



CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 't was to bear 
Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
And when a strong although a strange sensation 

Moves— female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

They naturally pour the « wine and oil,» 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else ; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if « he had loved, » 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with the very weakness he reproved; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt most indignant still at not being free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise ; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, 



To lose the hour would make her 



quite a martyr, 



And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time, 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say — in a meridian clime; 

With us there is more law given to the case, 
But here a small delay forms a great crime : 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIV. 
Juan's was good; and might have been still better, 

But he had got Haidee into his head : 
However strange, he could not yet forget her, 

Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 

For having had him to the palace led, 
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

cxxv. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries ; 

She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 



DON JUAN. 



CXXVI. 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 

But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride ; 

With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 
And seated her all drooping by his side, 

Then rising haughtily he glanced arouud, 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

«The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

cxxvi r. 

« Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof 
How much I have loved — that I love not thee ! 

In this vile garb, the distaffs web and woof 
Were fitter for me: love is for the free ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof. 

Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be, 

Heads bow, kuees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 

And hands obey — our hearts are still our own.» 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite, 

Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things ; 

She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 
Earth being only made for queens and kings. 

If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 

Legitimacy its born votaries, when 

Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion any where; 
And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress upon those charms which seldom are 
By the possessors thrown into the shade ; — 

She thought hers gave a double « right divine, » 

And half of that opinion 's also mine. 

GXXX. 

Remember, or (if you cannot) imagine, 

Ye! who have kept your chastity when young, 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the long days stung 

By her refusal, recollect her raging! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose, but you already have supposed. 
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 

Phedra, and all which story has disclosed 
Of good examples; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed, 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXII. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or any interesting beast of prey, 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies who cannot have their own way; 
But though my turn will not be served with less, 

These don't express one half what I should say: 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any? 



CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring 's nature's general law, 

From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; 
There's nothing whets the beak or arms the claw 

Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings ; 
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 

How mothers love their children's squalls and chuck- 
lings ; 
And this strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

GXXXIV. 
If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

T were nothing— for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 

I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 
So supernatural was her passion's rise; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 
Even you who know what a check'd woman is 
(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this. 

cxxxv. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well — 
A moment's more had slain her; but the while 

It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell : 
Nought s more sublime than energetic bile, 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

CXXXYI. 

A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 
To match a common fury with her rage, 

And yet she did not want to reach the moon, 
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; 

Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to «kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 

And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. 

CXXXYII. 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 

Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak ; 
And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 

A sentiment till then in her but weak, 
But now it flow'd in natural and fast, 

As water through an unexpected leak, 
For she felt humbled— and humiliation 
Is sometimes good for people in her station. 

CXXXVIII. 
It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 

It also gently hints to them that others, 
Although of clay, are not yet quite of mud; 

That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
And works of the same pottery, bad or good, 

Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: 
It teaches— Heaven knows only what it teaches, 
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX.. 

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head; 

Her secoud, to cut only his — acquaintance ; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred: 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed, 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 
The lash to Baba; — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 



620 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 

The dagger close at hand, -which made it awkward 

For eastern stays are little made to pad, 
So that a poniard pierces if t is stuck hard. 

She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad! 

Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 

The cutting off his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quarter' d as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 

Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, 
And thus heroically stood resign'd, 

Rather than sin — except to his own wish : 
But all his great preparatives for dying 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLII. 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed, 
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; 

And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
And then, if matters could be made up now; 

And next his savage virtue he accused, 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 

CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses; 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIV. 

« Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon !» 

('T was thus he spake) « and Empress of the Earth ! 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, 

Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
Which your sublime attention may be worth ; 

The Sun himself has sent me like a ray 

To hint that he is coming up this way.» 

CXLV. 

« Is it,» exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, « as you say? 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning! 
But bid my women form the milky way. 

Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warning — 
And, Christian! mingle with them as you may; 

And, as you'd have me pardon your past scorning » 

Here they were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, « the Sultan 's coming !» 

CXL VI. 

First came her damsels, a decorous file, 

And then his highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 

The train might reach a quarter of a mile: 
His majesty was always so polite 

As to announce his visits a long while 
Before he came, especially at night; 

For being the last wife of the emperor, 

She was of course the favourite of the four. 



CXLVH. 

His highness was a man of solemn port, 

ShawTcl to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise. 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention'd in the histories 

Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 9 

GXLVIH. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than « oriental scrupulosity ;» 

He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
And show'd but little royal curiosity: 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No process proved connubial animosity; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 

Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 

The sack and sea had settled all in time, 
From which the secret nobody could rip : 

The public knew no more than does this rhyme. 
No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 

Was also certain that the earth was square, 
Because he had journey' d fifty miles and found 

No sign that it was circular any where. 
His empire also was without a bound : 

'T is true, a little troubled here and there, 
By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 
But then they never came to «the Seven Towers ;» 

GL1. 
Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 

To lodge there when a war broke out, according 
To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 

Those scoundrels who have never had a sword in 
Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 

Their spleen in making strifo, and safely wording 
Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk or 
The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLH. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 

Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 
The former in a palace, where like nuns 

They lived till some bashaw was sent abroad, 
When she, whose turn it was, wedded at once, 

Sometimes at six years old— though this seems odd, 
T is true; the reason is, that the bashaw 
Must make a present to his sire in law. 

CL1II. 
His sons were kept in prison till they grew 

Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 
One or the other, but which of the two 

Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
Meantime the education they went through 

Was princely, as the proofs have always shown : 
So that the heir-apparent still was found 
No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 



DON JUAN. 



62 



CLIV. 

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

"With all the ceremonies of his rank, 
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank: 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank; 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 

CLV. 

His highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 

At which he seem'd no whit surprised, nor grieved, 

But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

«I see you 've bought another girl; 't is pity, 

That a mere christian should be half so pretty. » 

CLVI. 

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 

Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone: 
Oh, Mahomet! that his majesty should take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLVII. 
The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 

The women up — because in sad reality, 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 
Which in the north prevents precarious crimes, 

And makes our snow less pure than our morality : 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause, 
Though' not for want of matter ; but 't is time 

According to the ancient epic laws, 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 

Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime; 

Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 

You '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PREFACE 



CANTOS VI. VII. VIII. 



The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the follow- 
ing cantos (i. e, the 7th and 8th) are taken from a 
French work, entitled «Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie.» 
Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving 
the infant, which was the actual case of the late Due 
de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian 
service, and afterwards the founder and benefactor of 
Odessa, where his name and memory can never cease 
to be regarded with reverence. In the course of these 



cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the late 
Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time before 
his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died with him, 
they would have been suppressed; as it is, I am aw T are 
of nothing in the manner of his death or of his life to 
prevent the free expression of the opinions of all whom 
his whole existence was consumed in endeavouring 
to enslave. That he was an amiable man in private life, 
may or may not be true ; but with this the public have 
nothing to do : and as to lamenting his death, it will 
be time enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for 
his birth. As a minister, I, for one of millions, looked 
upon him as the most despotic in intention, and the 
weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized over a coun- 
try. It is the first time, indeed, since the Normans, 
that England has been insulted by a minister (at least) 
who could not speak English, and that Parliament per- 
mitted itself to be dictated to in the language of Mrs 
Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, ex- 
cept that if a poor radical, such as Waddington, or 
Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been buried 
in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances of the 
stake and mallet. But the minister was an elegant lu- 
natic — a sentimental suicide — he merely cut the «carotid 
artery » (blessings on their learning!) — and lo ! the pa- 
geant and the abbey, aud « the syllables of dolour 
yelled forth" by the newspapers — and the harangue of 
the coroner in an eulogy over the bleeding body of the 
deceased — (an Anthony worthy of such a Caesar) — and 
the nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of 
conspirators against all that is sincere or honourable. 
In his death he was necessarily one of two things by 
the law — a felon or a madman — and in either case no 
great subject for panegyric 1 In his life he was — what 
all the world knows, and half of it will feel for years to 
come, unless his death prove a « moral lesson » to the 
surviving Sejani 2 of Europe. It may at least serve as 
some consolation to the nations, that their oppressors 
are not happy, and in some instances judge so justly of 
their own actions, as to anticipate the sentence of man- 
kind. — Let us hear no more of this man, and let Ireland 
remove the ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary of 
Westminster. Shall the Patriot of Humanity repose by 
the Werther of Politics! ! ! 

With regard to the objections which have been made 
on another score to the already published cantos of 
this poem, I shall content myself with two quotations 
from Voltaire: — 

« La pudeur s'est enfuie des cceurs, et s'est refugiee 
sur les levres.» 

«Plus les mceurs sont depravees, plus les expressions 
deviennent mesurees; on croit regagner en langage ce 
qu'on a perdu en vertu.» 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded 
and hypocritical mass which leavens the present Eng- 
lish generation, and is the only answer they deserve. 
The hackneyed and lavished title of blasphemer — which 

1 I say by the law of the land— the laws of humanity judge more 
gently ; but as the legitimates have always the law in their mouths, 
let them here make the most of it. 

2 From this number must be excepted Canning. Canning is a ge- 
nius, almost a uniyersal one: an orator, a wit, a poet, a statesman ; 
and no man of talent can long pursue the path of his late prede- 
cessor, Lord C. If ever man saved his countiy, Canning can ; but 
will he? I, for one, hope so. 



629, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



-with radical, libera), jacobin, reformer, etc., are the 
changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in the 
ears of those who will listen — should be -welcome to all 
who recollect on whom it -was originally bestowed. 
Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death publicly as 
blasphemers, and so have been and may be many who 
dare to oppose the most notorious abuses of the name 
of God and the mind of man. Rut persecution is not 
refutation, nor even triumph : the wretched infidel, as 
he is called, is probably happier in his prison than the 
proudest of his assailants. With his opinions I have 
nothing to do — they may be right or wrong — but he 
has suffered for them, and that very suffering for con- 
science' sake will make more proselytes to Deism than 
the example of heterodox' prelates to Christianity, sui- 
cide statesmen to oppression, or over-pensioned homi- 
cides to the impious alliance which insults the world 
with the name of «Holy!» I have no wish to trample 
on the dishonoured or the dead; but it would be well 
if the adherents to the classes from whence those per- 
sons sprung should abate a little of the cant which is 
the crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speak- 
ing time of selfish spoilers, and — but enough for the 
present. 

1 When Lord Sandwich said a he did not know the difference be- 
tween orthodoxy and heterodoxy,* — Warburton, the bishop, replied, 
« Orthodoxy, my lord, is my doxy, and heterodoxy is another man's 
doxy.n— A prelate of the present day has discovered, it seems, a 
third kind of doxy, which has not greatly exalted, in the eyes of the 
elect, that which Bentham calls u Church-of-Englandism.n 



CANTO VI. 



« There is a tide in the affairs of men 

Which, taken at the flood"- — you know the rest, 

And most of us have found it, now and then ; 
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 

The moment, till too late to come again. 
But no doubt every thing is for the best — 

Of which the surest sign is in the end : 

When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 

n. 

There is a tide in the affairs of women 

« Which, taken at the flood, leads » — God knows 
where : 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair ; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : — 
Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
But women, with their hearts, or Heaven knows what ! 

III. 

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 

A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 

The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 

Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one), 

Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 



IV. 

Thrones, worlds, et ccetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 
Or at the least forgive the loving rash one. 

If Anthony be well remembered yet, 

'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion; 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalance all the Caesars' \ictories. 



He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport — 1 

Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart: as the world went, I 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 
'T was the boy's « mite,» and, like the « widow's,» may 

Perhaps be weigh' d hereafter, if not now ; 
But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 

All who have loved, or love, will still allow 
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, 

And Love 's a god, or was before the brow 
Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
Of — but chronology best knows the years. 

VII. 

We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman ; 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 

And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, 
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 

VIII. 
I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; 
But I detest all fiction, even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim 

Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 
I am not, like Cassio, «an arithmetician, » 

But by « the bookish theories it appears, 
If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision, 

That, adding to the account his Highness' years, 
The fair Sultana err'd from inanition; 

For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 
She could but claim the fifteen hundredth part 
Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 

It is observed that ladies are litigious 

Upon ail legal objects of possession, 
And not the least so when they are religious, 

Which doubles what they think of the transgression. 
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, 

As the tribunals show through many a session, 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 



DON JUAN. 



623 



XT. 

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, 
The heathens also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 

And take what kings call « an imposing attitude ; » 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, 
When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude; 

And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 

The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 

The favourite 5 but what 's favour amongst four ? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 

Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To make the nuptial couch a « Bed of Ware. » 

XIII. 

His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 

So styled according to the usual forms 
Of every monarch, till they are consigned 

To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms, 
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 

His highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 
Expecting all the welcome of a lover 
(A « Highland welcome » all the wide world over). 

XIV. 

Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 

May look like what is — neither here nor there : 
They are put on as easily as a hat, 

Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 

Which form an ornament, but no more part 

Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XV. 

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 

Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 

Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, 
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
A sincere woman's breast, — for over warm 
Or over cold annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 
For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire; 
For no one, save in very early youth, 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, 

And apt to be transfer r'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : while your over chilly 
Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly. — 

XVII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 

For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 
Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 

And see a sentimental passion glow, 
Even were St Francis' paramour their guest, 

In his Monastic Concubine of Snow ; — 
In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 
Horatian, « Medio tu tutissimus ibis.» 



XVIII. 

The « tu » 's too much, — but let it stand — the verse 

Requires it/that 's to say, the English rhyme, 
And not the pink of ol Hexameters; 

But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time 
In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 

And was thrust in to close the octave's chime: 
I own no prosody can ever rate it 
As a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 

*' XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 
Is much in most things, not less in the heart 

Than other articles of female dress. 
Self-love in man too beats all female art; 

They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 
And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 
Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose ; 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes; 

Yet disappointed joys are w r oes as deep 
As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen sou, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centage : a child cross, dog ill, 

A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted; 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 

Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain; — these are paltry things, and yet 

I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 

I 'ma philosopher; confound them all! 

Bills, beasts and men, and — no ! not womankind ! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call, 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 

XXIII. 
So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse, 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

T is so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
At least one of them — Oh the heavy night! 

When wicked wives who love some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the grey morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite, 

To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 

Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake. 



6?4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 

Also beneath the canopy of beds, 
Four-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call « driven 

Suow.» Well ! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if a peasants quean. 

XXYI. 

Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes, 
And, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's with « that mankind only had ' 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce : » 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 

And much more tender on the whole than fierce : 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 

To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion! — But my muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 

Or travelling in Patagouian lands; 
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love 

In which we left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
At the given signal join' d to their array; 

And though he certainly ran many risks, 
Yet he could not at times, keep by the way 

(Although the consequences of such frisks 
Are worse than the worst damages men pay 

In moral England, where the thing 's a tax), 

From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng, 

By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd 

A dame who kept up discipline among 

The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 

Without her sanction on their she-parades : 

Her title was «the Mother of the Maids. » 

XXXI. 

Whether she was a « mother, » I know not, 

Or whether they were « maids » whocall'd her mother ; 

But this is her seraglio title, got 

I know not how, but good as any other; 

So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott : 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd. 



XXXIT. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 

More easy by the absence of all men 
Except his Majesty, who, with her aid, 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
Where all the passions have, alas \ but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

And what is that ! Devotion, doubtless — how 
Could you ask such a question? — but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
Like water-lilies floating down a rill, 

Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 

Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 

Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 

When freed from bonds (which are of no great use, 

After all), or like Irish at a fair, 

Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

XXXV. 

Their talk of course ran most on the new comer, 
Her shape, her air, her hair, her every thing : 

Some thought her dress did not so much become her, I 
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring; 

Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, 
Others contended they were but in spring; 

Some thought her rather masculine in height, 

While others wish'd that she had been so quite, 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and « beautiful exceedingly," 

Who with the brightest Georgians might compare : 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz too could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 

Although her beauty w r as enough to vex, 
After the first investigating view, 

They all found out as few, or fewer, specks, 
In the fair form of their companion new, 

Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 
When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, 
In a new face « the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 
And yet they had their little jealousies, 

Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 
Whether there are such things as sympathies 

Without our knowledge or our approbation, 
Although they could not see through his disguise, 

All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 
Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
You please — we will not quarrel about that : 



DON JUAN. 



62 5 



XXXIX. 

But certain 't is they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 't -were 

A sentimental friendship through and through. 
Extremely pure, -which made them all concur 

In -wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish-'d they had a brother just like her, 

Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; — in short 
(To save description), fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree, 

And clime and time, and country aud complexion ; 

They all alike admired their new connexion. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu s form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLII. 
A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 

Yet very fit to « murder sleep» in those 
Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendant hue, 

Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
Few angles were there in her form, 't is true, 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders iu a tender taking : 
She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 
XLIV. 
Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 

« Juanna.» — Well, a pretty name enough. 
Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 

« From Spain.» — « But where fsSpain?» — « Don't ask 
such stuff, 
Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame !» 

Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
To poor Katinka : « Spain 's an island near 
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.)) 

XLV. 
Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 

Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 
And, looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, 

As if she pitied her for being there — 
A pretty stranger, without friend or guide, 

And all abash' d too at the general stare 
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 



XLVI. 

But here the JMother of the Maids drew near, 

With « Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 
I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear,» 

She added to Juanna, their new guest: 
« Your coming has been unexpected here, 

And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
We will have all things settled for you fairly. » 

XLYH. 
Here Lolah interposed— ^ Mamma, you know 

You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
That any body should disturb you so ; 

I'll take Juanna; we 're a slenderer pair 
Than you would make the half of; — don't say no, 

And I of your young charge will take due care.n 
But here Katinka interfered and said, 

« She also had compassion and a bed. 

XLYIII. 

« Besides, I hate to sleep alone, » quoth she. 

The matron frown'd: «Whyso?» — «For fear of ghosts, » 
Replied Katinka; « I am sure I see 

A phantom upon each of the four posts: 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts. » 
The dame replied, « Between your dreams aud you, 
1 fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

« You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter ,• you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 

And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

What say you, child ?» — Dudu said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 
Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 

Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks), 

She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, 

The otlters pouting at the matron's preference 

Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference 

LI. 

It was a spacious chamber (Oda is 

The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall 

Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 
I might describe, as I have seen it all, 

But it suffices — little was amiss; 

'T was on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 

With all things ladies want, save one or two, 

And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature.. 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 

And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 

79 



f)26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
Where all was harmony and calm and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth, 
Which if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 

Which some call « the sublime :» I wish they'd try it 

I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
And serious more than pensive, and serene, 

It may he, more than either — not unholy 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 

By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
Thus most appropriately has been shown 

« Lucus a non lucendo,» not what was, 

But what was not; a sort of style that 's grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

The devil may decompose but never settle : 

LVI. 

I think it may be of « Corinthian brass,» 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost). Kind reader ! pass 
This long parenthesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own! which meaneth, put 

A kind construction upon them and me : 

But that you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 

LVII. 

T is time we should return to plain narration, 
And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudu, 

With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 

This labyrinth of females, and each station 

Described — what's strange — in words extremely few: 

I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder, 

For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 

LVII1. 
And next she gave her (I say her, because 

The gender still was epicene, at least 
In outward show, which is a saving clause) 

An outline of the customs of the East, 
With all their chaste integrity of laws, 

By which the more a harem is increased, 
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I 'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss, 

Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this — 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

« Eiss» rhymes to « bliss» in fact as well as verse — 

I wish it never led to something worse. 



LX. 

j In perfect iunocence she then unmade 

Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 
| A child of nature, carelessly array'd ; 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 
T was like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 

Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass, 
When lirst she starts, and then returns to peep, 
Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; but not before she offer'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd — 
j Which pass'd well off — as she could do no less : 
Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd, 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a v/oman like a porcupine, 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more diead, 
Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine, 

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid; — 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 

LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise — 
And I love Wisdom more than she loves me; 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 

What are we? and whence came we ! what shall be 

Our ultimate existence ? what 's our present ? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 

And slumber hover' d o'er each lovely limb 
Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, 

They should have walk'd there in their spiiteliest trim, 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around, 

Like flowers of different hue and clime and root, 

In some exotic garden sometimes found, 

With cost and care and warmth induced to shoot. 

One, with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 

Nods fromthe tree, was slumbering with soft breath 

And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 

One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, 
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 

Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm; 

And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 

The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, 
As slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, 

Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 

All bashfully to struggle into light. 



DON JUAN. 



62 



LXYII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 

'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. 

A third's all-pallid aspect offer 'd more 
The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betray'd 

Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore 
Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd 

(As night dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 

The black bough) tear-drops thro' her eyes' dark fringes. 

Lxvnr. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still, 
Lay in a breathless, hush'd and stony sleep; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will; — 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and chuse — perhaps you '11 be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo! a fifth appears; — and what is she? 

A lady of « a certain age,» which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see 

As ere that awful period intervenes, 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf. 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

LXX. 

But all this time how slept or dream'd Dudu? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, 
To those who like their company, about 
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out : 

LXXI. 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall ; 

All trembling, wondering, without the least notion, 
More than I have myself, of what could make 
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 

LXXII. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
With floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
And bosoms, arms, and ancles glancing bare, 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 

By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care, 

For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 

Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But what is strange— and a strong proof how great 

A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay 
As fast as ever husband by his mate 

la holy matrimony snores away. 
Not all the clamour broke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say, 
At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes, 
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 



LXX IV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation, 

Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 

Dudii had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But, being «no orator, as Brutus is,» 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound, 
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 

A « wood obscure,» like that where Dante found, ' 
Himself in at the age when all grow good; 

Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd 
Bun much less risk of lovers turning rude ; — 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots; 

LXXVI. 

And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 
Bather too high and distant; that she threw 
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
J Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
I To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
' But always at a most provoking height : — 

Lxxvir. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope y 

It fell down of its own accord, before 
Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop 

And pick it up, and bite it to the core; 
That just as her young lip began to ope 

Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, 
And so— she awoke with a great scream and start. 

LXXVIII. 

All this she told with some confusion and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 

I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd 
Prophetically, or that which one deems 

« A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such things are settled now-a-days. 

LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a little at the false alarm 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
The matron too was wroth to leave her warm 

Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, 
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
And said that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 

« I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see, 
To-morrow, what his highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 



6a«S 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXI. 

« And poor Juanna too ! the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

{ With such a clamour — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

• And, as the quietest of all she might 

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known , 

I But now 1 must transfer her to the charge 

I Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large. » 

LXXXII. 

| Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
I Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone), 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
iler future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She promised never more to have a dream, 
At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 

She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 

And begg'd they would excuse her ; she 'd get over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed, 
And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
When all around rang like a tocsin-bell : 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once « mal-a-propos.» 

LXXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round, 
And hid her face within Juanna's breast ; 

Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
The colour of a budding rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
The mystery of this rupture of their rest ; 

All that I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late. 



LXXXVI. 

And so good night to them, — or, if you will, 

Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 

And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 

That stretches to the stony belt which girds 

Asia, where Raff looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom WGrn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil : 

The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which Fable places in her breast of wail, 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 



LXXXVIII. 

And that 's the moral of this composition, 

If people would but see its real drift ; — 
But that they will not do without suspicion, 

Because all gentle readers have the gift 
Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 

While gentle writers also love to lift 
Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 
The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the Sultana from a bed of splendour, — 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between love and pride : — 

So agitated was she with her error, 

She did not even look into the mirror. 

XG. 

Also arose about the self-same time, 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd , 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo. 

XCI. 

He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man, 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XGII. 

And now he rose : and after due ablutions, 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers and other pious evolutions, 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased, 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach,— and now rhymes wander 

Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's,— so you be 
Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me. 

XCIV. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on : 
But peoples ancestors are history's game ; 
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
I All generations, I should like to know 
I What pedigree the best would have to show ? 



DON JUAN. 



129 



xcv. 

Had Catherine and the Sultan understood 

Their own true interests, which kings rarely know, 

Until 't is taught hy lessons rather rude, 

There was a way to end their strife, although 

Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 
Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 

She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, 

And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

XCVI. 

I5ut as it was, his Highness had to hold 
His daily council upon ways and means, 

How to encounter with this martial scold, 
This modern Amazon aud Queen of queans; 

And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 

Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 

Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

XCVII. 

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 

Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 

And rich with all contrivances which grace 
Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 

Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
Of porcelain held in the fetter' d flowers, 
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVI II. 

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Vied with each other on this costly spot; 

And singing-birds without were heard to warble; 
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 

Varied each ray; — but all descriptions garble 
The true effect, and so we had better not 

Be too minute, an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summon d Baba, and required 
Don Juan at his hands, and information 

Of what had past since all the slaves retired, 
And whether he had occupied their station; 

If matters had been managed as desired, 
And his disguise with due consideration 

Kept up; and, above all, the where and how 

He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know. 

C. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions ask'd 
More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 

His best to obey in what he had been task'd; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 

Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd; 
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; 

She liked quick answers in all conversations; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 

In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; 
And as his speech grew still more broken-knee'ti, 

Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 



CII. 
When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 

To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through — 

He could not help the thing which he related : 
Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; 
But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

CHI. 

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole harem bore, 

As soon as they re-enter'd their own room, 
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door, 

Had settled all; nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

CIV. 

He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure, 
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact 

'T was certain that his conduct had been pure, 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made him insecure, 
But ended in his being found out and sack'd, 

And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 

Of ail save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 

CV. 

This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 

And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 

For any further answer that he found, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow; 

Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round, 
As if she had received a sudden blow, 

And the heart 's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 

It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 
Can never be described ; we all have heard, 

Aud some of us have felt thus « all amort,» 

When things beyond the common have occurr'd; 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 

What she could ne'er express — then how should I? 

CVII. 

She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 

Of inspiration gather' d from distress, 

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 

The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 

She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 

And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 

Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, — 

A low, soft ottoman), and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 

Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check 

I ts farther course, but must receive its wreck. 



63o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



GIX. 

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping 
Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 

Would that I were a painter! to be grouping 
All that a poet drags into detail! 

Oh that my words were colours ! but their tints 

May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

CX. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still, 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye — 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

cxr. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — but paused, 
And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 

A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 

By all the demons of all passions, show'd 

Their work even by the way in which he trode. 

GXII. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — « Slave ! 

Bring the two slaves !» she said, in a low tone, 
But one which Baba did not like to brave, 

And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 

(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 
For fear of any error like the late. 

CXIIJ. 

«. The Georgian and her paramour,» replied 
The imperial bride — and added, wLet the boat 

Be ready by the secret portal's side : 

You know the rest.» The words stuck in her throat, 

Despite her injured love and fiery pride; 
And of this Baba willingly took note, 

And begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 

She would revoke the order he had heard. 

GXIV. 

«To hear is to obey," he said; «but still, 

Sultana, think upon the consequence : 
It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their severest sense; 
But such precipitation may end ill, 

Even at your own imperative expense; 
I do not mean destruction and exposure 
In case of any premature disclosure; 

cxv. 

« But your own feelings. — Even should all the rest 
Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 

Already many a once love-beaten breast 
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 

You love this boyish, new seraglio guest, 
And — if this violent remedy be tried — 

Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 

That killing him is not the way to cure you.» 



CXVI. 

« What dost thou know of love or feeling? — wretch ! 

Begone !» she cried, with kindling eyes, « and do 
My bidding!" Baba vanish'd; for to stretch 

His own remoustrance further, he well knew, 
Might end iu acting as his own « Jack Ketch ;» 

And, though he wish'd extremely to get through 
This awkward business without harm to others, 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

CXYII. 

Away he went then upon his commission, 

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 
Against all women, of whate'er condition, 
Especially Sultanas and their ways; 
i Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 

Their never knowing their own mind two days, 
The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 
] Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

CXVI IT. 

! And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, 
And sent one on a summons to the pair, 

That they must instantly be well array'd, 
And, above all, be comb'd even to a hair, 

And brought before the empress, who had made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care : 

At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly; 

But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 

CXIX. 

, And here I leave them at their preparation 

For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
J Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 

Or got rid of the parties altogether — 
i Like other angry ladies of her nation — 

Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
May settle ; but far be 't from me to anticipate 
In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

CXX. 

I leave them for the present, with good wishes, 

Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange 
Auother part of history; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change : 
I And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 

Although his situation now seems strange 
i And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 
! The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. 



CANTO VII. 



Oh love! oh glory! what are ye? who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to alight : 
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendant and more fleeting flight. 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either lovely light; 
A thousand and a thousand colours they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 



DON JUAN. 



II. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When -\ve know what all are, we must hewail us, 
But ne'er the less I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at all things : for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a show? 

III. 

They accuse me — me — the present writer of 
The present poem, of — I know not what, — 

A tendency to under-rate and scoff 

At human power and virtue, and all that; 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be at? 

I say no more than has been said in Dante's 

Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes; 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 

By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato; 
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 

Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 
T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so— 

For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die, 
But which is best, you know no more than I. 

V. 

Socrates said, our only knowledge was 

«To know that nothing could be known ;» a pleasant 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas ! 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
That he himself felt only «like a youth 
Picking up shells by the great ocean — truth. » 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity — 

Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
By their examples of true Christianity; 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it. 
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, 

By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 
From holding up the nothingness of life? 

VII. 

Dogs, or men ! (for I flatter you in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far) ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ye are in every way. 

As little as the moon stops for the baying 

Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 

From out her skies: — then howl your idle wrath! 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

« Fierce loves and faithless wars» — I am not sure 
If this be the right reading — 't is no matter; 

The fact's about the same; lam secure; — 
I sing them both, and am about to batter 

A town which did a famous siege endure, 
And was beleaguer d both by land and water 

By Suvaroff, or anglice Suwarrow, 

Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 



IX. 

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 

Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 
With buildings in the oriental taste, 

But still a fortress of the foremost rank; 
Or was, at least, unless 'tis since defaced, 

Which with your conquerors is a common prank: 
j It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 
I And measures round of toises thousands three. 

X. 

Within the extent of this fortification 

A borough is comprised, along the height 

Upon the left, which, from its loftier station, 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upriglit, 
j So placed as to impede the fire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Of the high talents of this new Vauban : 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, 
The rampart higher than you'd wish to hang : 

But then there was a great want of precaution 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), 

Nor work advanced, nor cover'd-way was there, 

To hint, at least, « Here is no thoroughfare. » 

XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 

And walls as thick as most sculls born as yet; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
Case-mated one, and t' other « a barbette, « 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; 
While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set, 

Rose o'er the town's night side , in bristling tier, 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town's open quite, 

Because the Turks couid never be persuaded 
A Bussian vessel e'er would heave in sight; 

And such their creed was, till they were invaded, 
When it grew rather late to set things right. 

But as the Danube could not well be waded, 
Theylook'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, 
And only shouted, « Alla!» and «Bis Millah!» 

XIV. 
The Russians now were ready to attack; 

But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory! 
How shall I spell the name of each Cossack 

Who were immortal, could one tell their story? 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, 
Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 

XV. 

Still I'll record a few, if but to increase 

Our euphony — there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff. 
Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseniew of modern Greece, 

And Tschitsshakoff, and Boguenoff, and Chokenoff, 
And others of twelve consonants a piece : 

And more might be found out, if I could poke enough 
Into gazettes; but fame (capricious strumpet!) 
It seems has got an ear as well as trumpet, 



63 2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And cannot tune those discords of narration, 
Which may he names at Moscow, into rhyme. 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words too, fitted for the peroration 
Of Londonderry, drawling against time, 

Ending in « ischskin,» « ousckin,» « iffskchy,» « ouski,> 

Of whom we can insert hut Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin : 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff d high 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin ; 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XVIII. 

Then there were foreigners of much renown, 

Of various nations, and all volunteers; 
Not fighting for their country or its crown, 

But wishing to be one day brigadiers; 
Also to have the sacking of a town — 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, 
Sixteen call'd Thompson, and nineteen named Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ; — all the rest 
Had been call'd « Jemmy, » after the great bard; 

I don't know whether they had arms or crest, 
But such a godfather's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best 
Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or warn, 

Was he, since so renown'd «in country quarters 

At Halifax;" but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills; 

But when I 've added that the elder Jack Smith 
Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
I 've said all / know of a name that fills 

Three lines of the dispatch in taking «Schmacksmith,» 
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
May make up for a bullet in his body? 

I hope this little question is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: 

But I'm too great a patriot to record 
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; 

I'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth; — such truths are treason : they betray 

Their country, and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
Who name the French and English, save to show 
How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 



XXIII. 

The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildings, and the private too, 

No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
The city's shape suggested this, 't is true; 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 

The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh, 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Common in many cases, was in this 

The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; 

One of the valorous « Smiths» whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to « pith ;» 

But 't is a name so spread o'er «Sir» and «Madam,» 

That one would think the first who bore it « Adam.» 

XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
Because they were constructed in a hurry. 

Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who print them think is necessary, 

May likewise put off for a time what story 

Sometimes calls «murder,» and at others « glory. » 

XXVII. 

Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 

Their ha„ste, or waste, I neither know nor care. 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide; but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 
Made all their naval matters incorrect; 

Three fire-ships lost their amiable existence 
Before they reach'd a spot to take effect; 

The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
Could remedy this lubberly defect; 

They blew up in the middle of the river, 

While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever 

XXIX. 

At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 

The Russ flotilla getting under way; 
'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 

Which was return'd with interest, I may say, 
And by a fire of musketry and grasse, 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 



DON JUxVIN. 



633 



XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish Hie; and, aided by their own 

Laud batteries, work'd their guns with great precision : 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up ; a second, near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 

XXXI. 

The Moslem too had lost both ships and men; 

But when they saw the enemy retire, 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And gall'd the Prussians with a heavy lire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main. 

But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
Count Damas drove them back into the water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXII. 

« If» (says the historian here) « 1 could report 
All that the Russians did upon this day, 

I think that several volumes would fall short, 
And I should still have many things to say ;» 

And so he says no more — but pays his court 
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 

The Prince de Ligue, and Laugeron, and Damas, 

Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 

XXXIII. 

This being the case, may show us what fame is: 
For out of three « preux chevaliers,™ how 

Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed? (and they may live now 

For ought we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss; 
There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 

T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions — 

Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguished sooner than she ought: 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 

Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault; 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate: — but I must halt; 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man, — 

Not that his manhood could be called in question, 

For, had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
He died beneath a tree, as much unbless'd on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted, 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted; — 



XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great, 

If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent. 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean time the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly fired, and answer'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 

Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art, 

By his dispatches couch'd in pithy phrase, 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Suvaroff. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial, — 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With his proud brow, it merits slight applause, 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

«You will take Ismail, at whatever price. » 

XLI. 

«Let there be light !» said God, «and there was light 
« Let there be blood !» says man, and there 's a sea ! 

The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 
(For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should be 

Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit — 

For war cuts up not only branch but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends the Turks, who with loud « Allas» now 

Began to signalize the R.uss retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat 
(Or beaten, ifyoit insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat) ; 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

XLTII. 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 

In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs, 

For there were but three shirts between the two ; 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 

Till, in approaching, were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

So 



634 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIV. 

« Great joy to London now !» says some great fool, 
When London had a grand illumination, 

Which to that hottle-conjuror, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, 
That sage (said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 

'T is strange that he should further « damn his eyes,» 
For they are damn'd : that once all-famous oath 

Is to the devil now no further prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of hoth. 

Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, paradise : 

And famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 

Which stares him in the face, he won't examine, 

Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLVI. 

But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
He flitted to and fro, a dancing light, 
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 

XLVII. 

But, certes, matters took a different face; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIII. 

'T is thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 

Or reams the herd beneath the bull's protection : 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bell-wether form the flock's connexion 

By tinkling sounds when they go forth to victual : 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with j oy ; you would have thought 
That they were going to a marriage-feast 

(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 
Since there is discord after both at least), 

There was not now a luggage-boy but sought 
Danger and spoil with ardour much increased ; 

And why? because a little, old, odd man, 

Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 



But so it was; and every preparation 
Was made with all alacrity; the first 

Detachment of three columns took its station, 
And waited but the signal's voice to burst 

Upon the foe : the second's ordination 
Was also in three columns, with a thirst 

For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: 

The third, in columns two, attack' d by water. 



LI. 

New batteries were erected ; and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity, 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 
As sometimes happens in a great extremity; 

And, every difficulty being expell'd, 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity: 

While Suvaroff, determined to obtain it, 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 

Lit. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person, deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil: 

Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill; 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

LTII. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 

Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 

And made them charge with bayonets these machines, 
By way of lesson against actual Turks; 

And, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty: 

He made no answer; but he took the city. 

LIV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve 
Of the assault, and all the camp was in 

A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive ; 
Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and tliin, 

Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled : — there was little din, 

For some were thinking of their home and friends, 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering : 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm 
A fortress, harlequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill— 
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 

Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall, 

One of whom spoke their tongue, or well or ill — 
'T was much that he was understood at all; 

But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 

They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

Lvir. 

Whereon, immediately at his request, 

They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest 

Lurk'd Christianity; who sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 



DON JUAN. 



635 



Lvnr. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt, 

Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 
Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 

And lecturing on the nohle art of killing, — 
For, deeming human clay hut common dirt, 

This great philosopher was thus instilling 
His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 
Proved death in hattle equal to a pension; — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 

« Whence come ye?» — « From Constantinople last, 
Captives just now escaped, » was the reply. 

« What are ye?» — « What you see us.» Briefly past 
This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 
« Your names?» — « Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade's 
Juan; 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman. » The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said: « I have heard 
Your name before, the second is a new one; 

To bring the other three here was absurd; 
But let that pass; — I think I 've heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment ?» — « The same.n — 

LXI. 
«You served at AVidin?» — «Yes.» — « You led the attack? » 

« I did.» — «What next?» — «I really hardly know.» 
n You were the first i' the breach ?»— « I was not slack, 

At least, to follow those who might be so.» — 
«What follow'd?»— « A shot laid me on my back, 

And I became a prisoner to the foe.» — 
« You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 

LXII. 
« Where will you serve ?» — «Where'er you please. » — «I 
know 

You like to be the hope of the forlorn, 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 

After the hardships you 've already borne. 
And this young fellow? say what can he do?— 

He with the beardless chin and garments torn.» — 
« Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the assault..) — 

LXIH. 
« He shall, if that he dare.» Here Juan bow'd 

Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
Continued : « Your old regiment 's allow'd, 

By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
Or it may be to-night, the assault : I 've vow'd 

To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 
Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

« So now, my lads, for glory !» — Here he turn'd, 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd 

All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 



LXV. 

Johuson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favourite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement. « I confess 

My debt in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost ; but if you 'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend. » — 

LXVI. 

« Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 

Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now underarms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may remain with me; 

He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick teut.» 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new, 
Although their harem education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
Passive obedience, now raised up the head, 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 

LXVIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh, foolish mortals! always taught in vain! 
Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tiee, 

Of blood and tears must flow the unehbing sea ! 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears 
And natural agonies with a slight shade 

Of feeling : for, however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes— and such was Suwarrow. 

LXX. 

He said — and in the kindest Calmuck tone — 
« Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 

By bringing women here? They shall be shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 

In safety to the waggons, where alone 

In fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives. » 

LXXI. 

«May it please your excellency,)) thus replied 

Our British friend, « these are the wives of others, 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers, 

To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
Into a camp ; I know that nought so bothers 

The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 



636 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXII. 

« But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 

With their attendant aided our escape, 
And afterwards accompanied us through 

A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
To me this kind of life is not so new, 

To them, poor things! it is an awkward step ; 
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 
Request that they may both be used genteelly.» 

LXXIII. 

Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 

Their own protectors; nor was their surprise 
Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 

To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
In aspect, plaiuly clad, besmear'd with dust, 

Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 

More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 

As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them, 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem), 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 

LXXV. 

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay 
Though little versed in feelings oriental, 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way. 
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 

Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 
Or that the Russian army should repent all ; 

And, strange to say, they found some consolation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVT. 

And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses, 
They parted for the present — these to await, 

According to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 

(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 

While their beloved friends began to arm, 

To burn a town which never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 

Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross — 
Being much too gross to see them in detail ; 

Who calculated life as so much dross, 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job; — 

What was 't to him to hear two women sob ? 

Lxxvni. 

Nothing. The work of glory still went on 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade, 
Bombs,drums,guns,bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets, 
Hard words which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 



LXXTX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 

All ears, though long, — all ages, though so short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 

Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; — 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : 

LXXX. 

Oh ! thou eternal Homer! I have now 

To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood — 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ,* 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! 

Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 
There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 

But now the town is going to be attack'd; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em? 

Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 

To colour up his rays from your dispatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kifl'd and wounded ! 
Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty, 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded • 
Oh, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart ye, 

Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXTII. 

When I call « fading" martial immortality, 

I mean, that every age and every year, 
And almost every day, in sad reality, 

Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 
Who, when we coma to sum up the totality 

Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 
Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXTV. 

Medals, ranks, riband lace, embroidery, scarlet, 
Are things immortal to immortal man, 

As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
An uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in glory's van. 

But glory's glory; and if you would find 

What that is— ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 

At least he feels it, and seme say he sees, 

Because he runs before it like a pig; 
Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 

Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village-steeple. 



DON JUAN. 



63^ 



LXXXVI. 

Hark! through the silence of the cold dull night, 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 

Lo ! dusky masses steal in duhious sight 
Along the ieaguer'd wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, -while with straggling light 

The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank, 

Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smoke 

Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death, 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath ! 

A moment — and all will be life again! 

The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith! 

Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more — 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO VIII. 



Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, 
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds: 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

IT. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
To wield them in their terrible array. 

The army, like a lion from his den, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay- 

A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 

Whose heads were heroes, which, cut off in vain, 

Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 

History can only take things in the gross; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

As hajh been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why? because it brings self-approbation; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation — 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare — 
A higher title, or a loftier station, 

Though they may make corruption gape or stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of murder's rattles. 



V. 

And such they are — and such they will be found. 

Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground, 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! 

While the mere victor's may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watch-word till the future shall be free. 

VI. 

The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 

Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 

And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 
A mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 

Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 
The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes 
Spare, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes! 

VII. 
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 

Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 

Answering the christian thunders with like voices ; 
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced, 

Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises; 
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of « Allah !» rose 

In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 

Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore 
Resounded « Allah !» and the clouds, which close 

With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 
Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark! through 
All sounds it pierceth, « Allah ! Allah ! Hu !» ■ 

IX. 
The columns were in movement, one and all : 

But, of the portion which attack'd by water, 
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, 

Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter, 
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 

« Carnage ( so Wordsworth tells you ) is God's 
daughter :» 2 
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; 

Count Chapeau-Bras too had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap; in fact the ball could mean 
No harm unto a right legitimate head: 
« Ashes to ashes» — why not lead to lead? 

XI. 
Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince, 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, — 

All common fellows, who might writhe and wince 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 



638 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XII. 
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 

And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 

Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills ; 
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 

Like the death-watch, -within our ears the ills 
Past, present, and to come; — but all may yield 
To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony, 

Which meet the gaze,-whate'er it may regard — 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back -within its socket, — these reward 

Your rank and 61e by thousands, while the rest 

May win, perhaps, a riband at the breast ! 

XIV. 

Yet I love glory ; glory 's a great thing ; 

Think what it is to be in your old age 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king: 

A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
Your -wars eternally, besides enjoying 
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 

The troops already disembark'd push'd on 
To take a battery on the right; the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done, 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one, 

Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,- 

O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

xvr. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 

And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 

Of officers a third fell on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 

XVII. 

But here I leave the general concern, 
To track our hero on his path of fame : 

He must his laurels separately earn; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 

Though all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim, 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 

And, what is worse still, a much longer story: 

XVIII. 

And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ; — 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 

In the dispatch ; I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 3 



XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 

And fought away with might and main, not knowing 
The way which they had never trod before, 

And still less guessing where they might be going; 
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, 

Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing, 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 

Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 

A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were straining ; 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire, 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 

XXI. 

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch, 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stif fen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day — 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had 
There have been and are heroes who begun 

With something not much better, or as bad : 

Frederick the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run, 

For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 

Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 

And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 

Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic 
(The antiquarians who can settle time, 

Which settles all things, Boman, Greek, or Bunic, 
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime 

With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational 
As any other notion, and not national) ; — 4 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite « a broth of a boy,» 
A thing of impulse and a child of song: 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 

Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), 

And afterwards, if he must needs destroy, 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure; 

XXV. 

But always without malice. If he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what we call « the best 

Intentions,)) which form all mankind's trump-card, 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 

'T is pity « that such meanings should pave hell.» 5 



DON JUAN. 



63 



XX VI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved — 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 

Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 

And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides, 
Just at the close of the first bridal year, 

By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 
I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 

Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
And that the rest had faced unto the right 

About; a circumstance which has confounded 
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 
And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 

For a much longer time; then, like an ass — 

(Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one) — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 

And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Quite disappear' d — the gods know how! (I can't 
Account for every thing which may look bad 

In history; but we at least may grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 

In search of glory, should look on before, 

Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps:) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single-handed; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake 

An « ignis fatuus,» or as sailors stranded 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 

So Juan, following honour and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 



XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 

For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 

The hour, as is the case with lively brains; 
And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 

And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains, 
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon ! 6 

XXXIV. 

And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second column, 

Under the orders of the general Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume, 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air, 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces, 

And levell'd weapons, still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 

Who had « retreated," as the phrase is when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how « to cut and come again, » 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
Except Don Juan — a mere novice, whose 

More virgin valour never dream'd of flying, 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 

Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews, — 

Johnson retired a little, just to rally 

Those who catch cold in « shadows of death's valley. » 

XXXVII. 

And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 

Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 
Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 

In this extensive city, sore beset 
By christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil as yet, 
He found a number of chasseurs, all scatter'd 
By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 
And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they came 

Unto his call, unlike « the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 

Savs Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds, 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
And though his name than Ajax or Achilles 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
Her steady breath (which some months the same still is); 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 

And could be very busy without bustle. 



64o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL. 

And therefore, -when he ran away, he did so 

Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
He would find others who would fain be rid so 

Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 

Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
But when they light upon immediate death, 
Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLT. 

But Johnson only ran off to return 

With many other warriors, as we said, 
Unto that rather some what misty bourn, 

Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 
To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern: 

His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
Acted upon the living as on wire, 
And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 

Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 

They found on their return the self same welcome, 

Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 

XLIII. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 

Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were kuock'd 

Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towus, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels, 

That Johnson, and some few who had not seamper'd, 

Reach' d the interior talus of the rampart. 

XLV. 

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 

Flame was shower d forth above as well 's below, 

So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, — 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet, 

Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XL VI. 

But those who scaled found out that their advance 
Was favour'd by an accident or blunder: 

The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder 

To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under) — 

Right in the middle of the parapet, 

Just named, these palisades were primly set: 



XLVII. 
So that on either side some nine or ten 

Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 
To march; a great convenience to our men, 

At least to all those who were left alive, 
Who thus could form a line and fight again; 

And that which further aided them to strive 
Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 7 

XLViir. 

Among the first, — I will not say the first, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations; 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 

And God knows who besides in « au» and « ou,» 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 

Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw, 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions, 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 

L. 

But never mind; — «God save the king!» and kings! 

For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer. — 
I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 

The people by and by will be the stronger: 
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 

So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, 

Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant; 

At last it takes to weapons, such as men 

Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant 

Then « comes the tug of war;» — ■ 't will come again, 
I rather doubt; and I would fain say « fie on 't.» 

If I had not perceived that revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 
But to continue: — I say not the first, 

But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 

Amidst such scenes — though this was quite a new one 
To him, and I should hope to most The thirst 

Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 
Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 
As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LED. 

And here he was — who, upon woman's breast, 
Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confess'd; 
To him it was Elysium to be there; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

« Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;» 

But Juan never left them while they 'd charms, 



DON JUAN. 



64 1 



LIV. 

Unless coinpell'd by fate, or -wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But here he was ! — where each tie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 

And /te, whose very body was all mind, — 

Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 

The loftiest, — hurried by the time and place, — 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 

As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 
Or double post and rail, where the existence 

Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 
The lightest being the safest : at a distance 

He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
Blood, until heated — and even there his own 
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI. 

The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a « base Bezonian» 
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. 

LVII. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 

As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command; 
For, seeing one with riband, black and blue, 

Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 
He recognized an officer of rank. 

LVIII. 
Short speeches pass between two men who speak 

No common language ; and besides, in time 
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 

Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
Is perpetrated ere a word can break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer 
There cannot be much conversation there. 

LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 

Two loug octaves, pass'd in a little minute; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 

Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

« God made the country, and man made the town.» 
So Cowper says — and I begin to be 

Of his opinion, when I see cast down 
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh — 

Ali walls men know, and many never known ; 
And, pondering on the present and the past, 
To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 



LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, 

Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 

Of the great names which in our faces stare, 

The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, 

Was happiest amongst mortals any where; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days, 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXII. 

Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
Of solitude ; health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 

LXIII. 

And what 's still stranger, left behind a name — 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, — 

Not only famous, but of that good fame 
Without which glory's but a tavern song — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

•T is true he shrank from men, even of his nation, 
When they built up unto his darling trees, 

He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more ease — 

The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; — 

But, where he met the individual man, 

He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 

Whose young, unwaken'd Yv-orld was ever new, 
For sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on nature's or on human face; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall and strong and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 

Of care or gain : the green woods were their portions; 

No sinking spirits told them they grew grey; 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 

Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, 
I Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXYII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil: 

The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

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LXVIII. 

So much for nature:— by way of variety, 
Now back to thy great joys, civilization! 

And the sweet consequence of large society, — 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 

The kindly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 

The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 

The scenes like Catharines boudoir at three-score, 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The town was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another; 

The reeking bayonet and the Hashing blade 

Ciash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid; — 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 

The breath of morn and man, where, foot by foot, 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow, be who afterwards beat back 

(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 

It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 

His jest alike in face of friend or foe, 
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake- 
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take. 

LXXI. 

For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears; 

But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch — 
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted) — for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again : 

LXX1I. 

And, had it not been for some stray troops, landing 
They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander' d up and down as in a dream, 

Until they reach'd as day-break was expanding, 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXX HI. 

And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 

After the taking of the « cavalier, » 
Just as Koutousow's most « forloru» of « hopes» 

Took, like cameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Open'd the gate call'd « Kilia» to the groups 

Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud, 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXIV. 

The Cozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 

( I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 

So that I do not grossly err in facts, 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 

Having been used to serve on horses' backs, 
And no great dilettanti in topography 

Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 

Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 



LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart, 

And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
The city, without being further hamper'd; 

But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder' d — 
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd 

Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners. 

From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners. 

LXXYI. 

Then being taken by the tail — a taking 

Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 
Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking, 

And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
Cut perish'd without shivering or shaking, 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki : — 

LXXYII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 't was an even bet 

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn : 

'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another column also suffer'd much: 

And here we may remark with the historian, 

You should but give few cartridges to such 

Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on : ! 

When matters must be carried by the touch 

Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, ' 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXX IX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 

Was made at length, with those who dared, to climb , 

The death-disgorging rampart once again; 

And, though the Turk's resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers. 

Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. — 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 

LXXXL 

For all the answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steel and lead, — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions: not a single head 

Was spared, — three thousand Moslems perish'd here, 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 



DON JUAN. 



643 



LXXXII. 

The city 's taken — only part by part — 

And death is drunk with gore: there 's not a street 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to heat. 
Mere War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender' d monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 't were by the Serpent's head, 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel. 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 

And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIV. 
A dying Moslem, who had felt the feot 

Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 
The very tendon which is most acute — 

(That which some ancient muse or modern wit 
Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 

He made the teeth meet; nor relinquish'd it 
Even with his life — for (but they lie) 't is said 
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 

LXXXV. 

However this may be, 't is pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed, 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd: 

The regimental surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inveterate foe, 

Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and 't is the part 

Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restriction 
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 

For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
And that outrageous appetite for lies 
Which Satan angles with for souls like flies. 

LXXXVII. 

The city's taken, but not render'd! — No ! 

There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword: 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe: 

In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish'd every where, 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 

When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; 

But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 



LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 't is not 

My cue for any time to be terrific: 
For chequer'd as is seen our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific; — 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
[ sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

And one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is « quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 

Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 

And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 

And hide her little palpitating breast 

Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. 

XCII. 

Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child 

With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them, 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
Has feelings pure and polish' d as a gem, — 

The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild ; 

And whom for this at last must we condemn? 

Their natures, or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy? 

XCIII. 

Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, 

Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead : 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, 

I shall not exactly say what he said, 

Because it might not solace « ears polite ;» 

But what he did, was to lay on their backs, — 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 

XCIV. 

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 

If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 

Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 

Don Juan raised his little captive from 

The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

XCV. 
And she was chill as they, and on her face 

A slender streak of blood announced how near 
Her fate had been to that of all her race; 

For the same blow which laid her mother here 
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 

As the last link with all she had held dear; 
Out else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



XGVI. 

Just at this instant, -while their eyes were fix'd 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 

With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
Unto his protegee ; while hers, trausfix'd 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase; — 

XCVII. 

Up came John Johnson — (I will not say « Jack, » 
For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 

On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) — 

Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 
Exclaiming : — « Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace 

Your arm, and I '11 bet Moscow to a dollar, 

That you and I will win Saint George's collar. 8 

xcvm. 

« The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 

But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 
The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 

Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 
Of our artillery and his own : 't is said 

Qur kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 
Lie round the battery; but still it batters, 
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 
«Then up with me!» — But Juan answer'd, «Look 

Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 
Her life to chance; but point me out some nook 

Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, 
And I am with you.» — "Whereon Johnson took 

A glance around — and shrugg'd — and twitch'd his 
sleeve 
And black silk neckcloth — and replied, « You're right; 
Poor thing! what's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite. » 

G- 
Said Juan — « Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I '11 not quit her till she seems secure 
Of present life a good deal more than we.» — 

Quoth Johnson— « Neither will I quite ensure ; 
But at the least you may die gloriously.» 

Juan replied — « At least I will endure 
Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.» 

CI. 
Johnson said — « Juan, we 've no time to lose; 

The child 's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark! now ehuse 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity : 
Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 

"Will serve when there is plunder in a city; — 
1 should be loth to march without you, but, 
By God! we '11 be too late for the first cut.» 

CII. 

But Juan was immovable; until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 

Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey : 

And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day, 

But if she were deliver'd safe and sound, 

They should at least have fifty roubles round, 



cm. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades; — then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder 
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens every where each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victory, and such is man ! 

At least nine-tenths of what we call so; — God 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject, a brave Tartar Khan, — 

Or « sultan,» as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 

GV. 

But, flank'd by Jive brave sons (such is polygamy, 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 
He never would believe the city won 

While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? 

Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 

Who fought with his five children in the van. 

GVI. 

To take him was the point. The truly brave, 
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 

Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods 

The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 

Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

cvn. 

But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied : 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
Expended all their eastern phraseology 

In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
So much less fight as might form an apology 

For tliem in saving such a desperate foe — 
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 

When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses 

Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 
Juan and Johnson, whereupon they fell — 

The first with sighs, the second with an oath — 
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 

And all around were grown exceeding wroth 
At such a pertinacious infidel, 

And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 

Which they resisted like a sandy plain,— 



DON JUAN. 



645 



ex. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd : — 

His second son was leveJl'd by a shot; 
His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 

Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot; 
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, 

Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 
To save a sire who blush' d that he begot him. 

cxr. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, 
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 

On earth, in Paradise; and, when once seen, 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures, 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 

CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young Khan 
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

And that 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 

You '11 find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

cxur. 

Your houris also have a natural pleasure 
In lopping off your lately married men 

Before the bridal hours have danced their measure, 
And the sad second moon grows dim again, 

Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure 
To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 

And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 

Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus the young Khan, with houris in his sight, 

Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er oar better faith derides, 

These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
As though there were one heaven and none besides,— 

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 
That when the very lance was in his heart, 

lie shouted « Allah !» and saw Paradise 
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, — 

With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 

In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died : 

CXVI. 

But, with a heavenly rapture on his face, 

The good old Khan — who long had ceased to see 

Houris, or aught except his florid race, 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 

When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, 

Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 

A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 



CXVII. 

The soldiers,' who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 

Quarter, in case he bade them not « aroint !» 
As he before had done. He did not heed 

Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 

As he look'd down upon his children gone, 

And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 

CXVIII. 

But 't was a transient tremor : — with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wirjg 

Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 

Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young ; 

And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 

In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 

CXIX. 

'T is strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
Spared neither sex nor age in their career 

Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
And lay before them with his children near, 

Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 
Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 

Flow'd from their blood-shot eyes, all red with strife, 

They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 

cxx. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post: 

Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, 
And baffled the assaults of all their host; 

At length he condescended to inquire 
If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 

And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 

To answer Riba's summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet; — Troy 

Saw nothing like the scene around; — yet, looking 

With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 

His beard, he puffd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives as well as tails. 

exxn. 

The town was taken — whether he might yield 
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now ; 

His stubborn valour was no future shield. 

Ismail is no more! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

CXXIH. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 

All that the body perpetrates of bad; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad; 
Ail that defies the worst which pen expresses; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse,— 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



cxxiv. 

If here and there some transient trait of pity, 

Was shown, and some more nobleheart broke through 

Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
Child, or an aged helpless man or two — 

What's this in one annihilated city, 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow? 

Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris ! 

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 

Think how the joys of reading a gazette 
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 

Or, if these do not move you, don't forget 
Such doom may be your own in after times. 

Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, 
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 

Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 

CXXVI. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 

A subject of sublimest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! 

Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 

Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throne — 

Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. 

cxxvir. 

But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 

Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 

The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 

Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 

Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all ! 

CXXVIII. 

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise 

The Russian army upon this occasion, 
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 

And therefore worthy of commemoration : 
The topic s tender, so shall be my phrase — 

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 
Had made them chaste; — they ravish'd very little. 

CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line ; — but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration ; 

But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark, 
Which show'd a want of lanthorns, or of taste — 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides such things from 
haste 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
Of light to save the venerably chaste: — 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 

Were all detlower'd by different grenadiers. 



CXXXI. 

But on the whole their continence was great; 

So that some disappointment there ensued 
To those who had felt the inconvenient state 

Of « single blessedness, » and thought it good 
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

< CXXXII. 
Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 

Were also heard to wonder in the din 
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 

« Wherefore the ravishing did not begin !» 
But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 

There was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

CXXX II I. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 

For Timor or for Zinghis in his trade, 
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch 

Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, 
With bloody hands he wrote his first dispatch; 

And here exactly follows what he said : — 
« Glory to God and to the Empress !» (Powers 
Eternal! such names mingled .') « Ismail 's ours !»9 

CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
Since « Mene, Mene, Tekel,» and « Upharsin,» 

Which hands or pons have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I 'm but little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations; — but this Russ, so witty, 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 

cxxxv. 

He wrote this polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 
For I will teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones; — 

But ye — our children's children! think how we 

Show'd wliat things were before the world was free ! 

CXXXVI. 

That hour is not for us, but 't is for you; 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
You hardly will believe such things were true 

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em ; 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em, 
More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
Who painted their bare limbs, but nor with gore. 

CXXXVIT. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, 

And those that sate upon them, let it be 
As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones, 

And wonder what old world such things could see; 
j Or hieroglyphics ou Egyptian stones, 
The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
! Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
! As the real purpose of a pyramid. 



DON JUAN. 



64 7 



cxxxyin. 

Header! I have kept my word, — at least so far 
As the first canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic, if plain truth should prove no har: 
For I have drawn much less with a long how 

Than mv fore-runners. Carelessly I sing, 

But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may hefal. 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I chuse to break off in the middle, 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
While Juan is sent off with the dispatch, 
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 

CXL. 
This special honour was conferr'd, because 

He had behaved with courage and humanity; — 
Which last men like, when they have time to pause 

From their ferocities produced by vanity. 
His little captive gain'd him some applause, 

For siving her amidst the wild insanity 
Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her 
Safety, than his new order of St Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless houseless, helpless: all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall: 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 

Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more! — and Juan wept, 

And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 



CANTO IX. 



i. 

Oh, Wellington! (or «Yilainton» — for fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; 

France couid not even conquer your great name, 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) — 

You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humanity would rise, and thunder « >*ay ! » • 

II. 
I don't think that you used K — n — rd quite well 

In Marine t's affair — in fact 't was shabby, 
And, like some other things, won't do to tell 

Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
Upon the rest t is not worth while to dwell, 

Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby; 
But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 
In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 



III. 
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much. 

Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: 
You have repair'd legitimacy's crutch — 

A prop not quite so certain as before: 
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 

Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; 
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor — 
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better.) 

IV. 

You are « the best of cut-throats :» — do not start; 

The phrase is Sbakspeare's, and not misapplied : 
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part, 

The world, not the world's masters, will decide. 
And I shall be delighted to learn who, 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo I 

V. 

I am no flatterer — you 've supp'd full of flattery : 

They say you like it too — 't is no great wonder: 
He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 

At last may get a little tired of thunder; 
And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 

May like being praised for every lucky blunder: 
Call'd « Saviour of the Xations» — not yet saved, 
And « Europe's Liberator» — still enslaved. 

VI. 
I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 

Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
And send the sentinel before your gate, 

A slice or two from y*our luxurious meals: 2 
He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 

Some hunger too they say the people feels: 
There is no doubt that you deserve your ration — 
But pray give back a little to the nation. 

Ylf. 
I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 

You, my Lord Duke ! is far above reflection. 
The high Boman fashion too of Cincinnatus 

With modern history has but small connexion : 
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 

You need not take them under your direction; 
And half a million for your Sabine farm 
Is rather dear! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 

VIII. 

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses; 

Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses: 

George Washington had thanks and nought beside, 
Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 

To free his country: Pitt too had his pride. 
And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 
Pienown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity, 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more: 
You might have freed falln Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore; 
And now — what is your fame ? Shall the muse tune it ye ? 

Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? 
Go, hear it in your famish'd country's cries! 
Behold the world! and curse your victories! 



648 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
To you the unflattering muse deigns to inscribe 

Truths that you will not read in the gazettes, 
But which, 't is time to teach the hireling tribe 

Who fatten on their country's gore and debts, 
Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 

You did great things; but, not being great in mind, 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

xi. 

Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 

With which men image out the unknown thing 

That hides the past world, like to a set sun 

Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring: 

Death laughs at all you weep for; — look upon 
This hourly dread of all whose threatened sting 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath! 

Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath ! 

XII. 
Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are: from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd; the antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles; and whether near or far 

He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin, 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 

XIII. 
And thus Death laughs : — it is sad merriment, 

But still it is so; and with such example 
Why should not Life be equally content, 

With his superior, in a smile to trample 
Upon the nothings which are daily spent 

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like hours? 

XIV. 

« To be, or not to be ! that is the question, » 

Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 

I am neither Alexander nor Hephsestion, 

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion, 
Than Bonaparte's cancer: — could I dash on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach — what were a good name? 

XV. 
«Oh, dura ilia messorum!» — «Oh, 

Ye rigid guts of reapers !» — I translate 
For the great benefit of those who know 

What indigestion is — that inward fate 
Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow, 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 
Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, — 
He who sleeps best may be the most conteDt. 

XVI. 

«To be, or not to be!» — Ere I decide, 

I should be glad to know that which is being. 
J 'T is true we speculate both far and wide, 

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing : 

For my part, I '11 enlist on neither side, 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 



XVII. 

«Oue sais-je? » was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians: 
That all is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favourite positions. 
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain 

As any of mortality's conditions: 
So little do we know what we 're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIII. 

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,, 

Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation ; 
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 

Your wise men don't know much of navigation; 
And swimming long in the abyss of thought 

Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers 
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 

XIX. 

«But heaven," as Cassio says, «is above all. — 

No more of this then, — let us pray!» We have 
Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 

Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, 
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. « The sparrow's fall 

Is special providence," though how it gave 
Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd 
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 
Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? 

Oh, thou too mortal man! what is philanthropy? 
Oh, w r orld, which was and is! what is cosmogony? 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy; 
And yet I know no more than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean: — Lycan- 
thropy 
I comprehend; for, without transformation, 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 
But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 

Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 
Done any thing exceedingly unkind , — 

And (though I could not now and then forbear 
Following the bent of body or of mind) 

Have always had a tendency to spare, — 
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because 
They hate me, not I them: — And here we '11 pause. 

XXII. 
T is time we should proceed with our good poem, 

For I maintain that it is really good, 
Not only in the body, but the proem, 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the truth will show 'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude: 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours) — 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, 

Who still have shown themselves more brave than 
witty; 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that s a pity. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 



DON JUAN. 



649 



XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With thought ; — and of thought's foes by far most rude, 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 

I know not who may conquer: if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people : 

Without me there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels to pull down every steeple, 

And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, 
As is the christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know; — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 

XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties: — never mind! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small art : he 
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

That's an appropriate simile, that jackal; 

I' ve heard them in the Epliesian ruins howl 
By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 

However the poor jackals are less foul 
(As being the brave lions keen providers) 
Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away, 

And without that, their poison and their claws 
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say — 

(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause! 
The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make common cause: 
None, save the Spauish fly and Attic bee, 
As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 

Was left upon his way with the dispatch, 
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; 

And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 

Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 
Between these nations as a main of cocks, 
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 



XXXI. 
At every jolt— and there were many — still 

He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 
As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 

Than he, in these sad highways left at large 
To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill, 

Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 
On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 

To be the first of what we used to call 
« Gentlemen farmers^ — a race worn out quite, 

Since lately there have been no rents at all, 
And « gentlemen» are in a piteous plight, 

And « farmers» can't raise Ceres from her fall: 
She fell with Bonaparte : — What strange thoughts 
Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 
But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 

Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy! 
Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

W 7 ith gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 

And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 
To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! 
Because he could no more digest his dinner: — 3 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or she ! or he ! reflect, 

That one life saved, especially if young 
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 

With all the praises ever said or sung : 
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 
Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous! 

Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us! 

Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the « courtier's kibes>» 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation. — 

XXXVI. 
Oh, ye great authors! — « A-propos de bottes»— 

I have forgotten what I meant to say, 
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots: 

T was something calculated to allay 
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: 

Certes it would have been but thrown away. 
And that 's one comfort for my lost advice, 
Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 

But let it go: — it will one day be found 
With other relics of « a former world, » 

When this world shall be former, underground. 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, oc drown'd, 
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 

First out of and then back again to chaos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

Sa 



65o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xxxvin. 

So Cuvier says;— and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy d and left in airy douht: 
Like to the notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
I Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think, if then George the Fourth should be dug up! 

How the new worldlings of the then new east 
Will wonder where such animals could sup! 

(For they themselves will be but of the least: 
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 

And every new creation hath decreased 
In size, from overworking the material — 
Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial.) — 

XL. 
How will — to these young people, just thrust out 

From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 
I And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 

And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 
Till all the arts at length are brought about, 

Especially of war and taxing, — how, 
I say, will these great relics, when they see em, 
Look like the monsters of a new museum ! 

XLI. 
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: 

« The time is out of joint, » — and so am I; 
I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 

And deviate into matters rather dry. 
I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 

Much too poetical: men should know why 
They write, and for what end; but, note or text, 
I never know the word which will come next. 

XLII. 

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 

Now pondering. It is time we should narrate : 

I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 

Now we 'II get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey — we 've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows; 

XLIII. 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 

Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, 
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk: 

XLIV. 

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 

That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 

Seeing how art can make her work more grand, 
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailor) — 

Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 

Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of arlillerv! 



XLV. 

His bandage slipp'd dov/n into a cravat; 

His wings subdued to epaulets; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever ; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat; 

But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 

The empress smiled ; the reigning favourite frown'd — 

I quite forget which of them was in hand 

Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 

Who took by turns that difficult command, 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 
Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 

Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless 
There was a something in his turn of limb, 

And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 
That though he look'd one of the seraphim, 

There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi:^ 

XLVIII. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatoff, or any other off 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that « high official situation.)) 

XLIX. 

Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess 5 show 

His parts of speech; and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of words all in a row, 

Which none divine, and every one obeys. 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning, 
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 

I think I can explain myself without 

That sad inexplicable beast of prey- 
That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 

Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 

Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 
And here I must an anecdote relate, 
But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LI. 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 

What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Gali'd « Cavalier Servente?»— a Pygmalion 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 

Said— « Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.* 



DON JUAN, 



D3 J 



LII. 
Aud thus I supplicate your supposition, 

And mildest, matron-like interpretation 
Of the imperial favourite's condition. 

'T -was a high place, the highest in the nation 
In fact, if uot in rank; and the suspicion 

Of any oue's attaining to his station, 
No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 
If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LIII. 
Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 

And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 
The usual hirsute seasous which destroy, 

With beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 
Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 

And founded Doctor's Commons: — I have conn'd 
The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd, 
Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 

LIV. 

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much, 

Admiring those ( by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment; and he she most adored 
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet hut made a middling grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh, thou « teterrima causa» of all « belli!" — 

Thou gate of life and death ! — thou nondescripit! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 

In thy perennial fountain : — how, man fell, I 

Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stripp'd 

Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises 

Since, thou hast settled bevond all surmises. 

LVI. 

Some call thee « the worst cause of war,» but I 
Maintain thou art the best: for, after all, 

I-'rom thee we come, to thee we go; and whv, 
To get at thee, not batter down a wall, 

Or waste a world? Since no one can deny 

Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stind 

Are , or would be, thou sea of life's dry laud ! 

LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 

You please (it causes all the things which be, 
So you may take your choice of this or thai) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his dispatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIIJ. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 

Forgetting quite the woman (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole), she tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore. 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious. 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 



LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys; the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain : 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East-Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

[flood only serves to wash ambition's hands! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Prussian couplet, rather dull, 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
j Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which ruus naturally through 
Our veins, when things called sovereigns think it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
And lighted first her eye aud then her mouth: 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, 
Like ilowers well water'd after a long drouth: — 

But when on the lieutenant, at her feet, 
Her majesty — who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new dispatch — 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
When wrotli; while pleased, she was as fine a figure 

As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 

With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LX1II. 
With her the latter, though at times convenient, 

Was not so necessary : for they tell 
That she was handsome, and, though fierce, look'd lenient. 

And always used her favourites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 

Your « fortune» was in a fair way « to swell 
A man,» as Giles says ; 6 for, though she would widow all 
Nations, she liked man as an individual. 

LXIY. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman ? What a whirlwind is her head. 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and dauger 
Is all the rest about her ! whether wed, 

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind; whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she'll say or do; — 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXV. 
Oh, Catherine! (for of all interjections 

To thee both oh! and ah I belong of right 
In love and war) how odd are the connexions 

Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 
Just now yours were cut out in different sections: 

First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite; 
Next, of new knights the fresh and glorious batch . 
And thirdly, he who brought you the dispatch ! 



65 a 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVI. 

Shakspeare talks of « the herald Mercury 

New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;» 
And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 

While her young herald knelt hefore her still. 
'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high 

For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill 
Smoothd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's blessing, 
With youth and health all kisses are « heaven-kissing. » 

LXYII. 

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face, 

His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or « black drop» 

Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 

Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye 

In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 

LXYIII. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love, 
Fell into that no less imperious passion, 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 

Or duchess, princess, empress, « deigns toprove,» 

('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, 

For one especial person out of many, 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXJX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Danile in the lions' den, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then. 

To make a twilight in— just as Sol's heat is 

Quench' d in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine) 
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 

Made up upon an amatory pattern — 
A royal husband in all save the ring — 

Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes, or grey — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the best examples say: 

Napoleon's, Mary's (Queen of Scotland) should 
Lend to that colour a transcenriant ray; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 

Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 

LXXII. 

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 

He; preference of a boy to men much bigger 
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 

With other extras which we need not mention, — 

All the ; .e, or any one of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 



LXXIII. 

And that 's enough, for Jove is vanity, 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity, 

On which the passion's self seems to depend: 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the main-spring of the universe. 

LXX IV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 

Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 

'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 

The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there are those things which words name senses ; 

LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies, 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out 

Of their own sand-pits to mix with a goddess — 
For such all women are at first, no doubt. 

How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 

LXXV I. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with; the next grand 

Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle, 
As flourishing in every christian land, 

Is, when chaste matrous to their other ties 

Add what may be eall'd marriage in disguise. 

LXXYII. 

Well, we won't analyse — our story must 
Tell for itself : the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust; — 
I cannot stoop to alter words once written, 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 

That he who names one, both perchance may hit on: 

But in such matters Bussia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each loveiy lisper 

Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, who was this very new young man, 

Who promised to be great in some few hours? 
Which is full soon (though life is but a span) : 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can, 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of several ribands and some thousand peasants. 



DON JUAN. 



653 



LXXX. 

Catherine was generous ; — all such ladies are : 
Love, lhat great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, he they near or far, 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
And was not the best wife, unless we call 

Such Clytemnestra ; though perhaps l is better 

That one should die, thau two drag on the fetter) — 

LXXXI. 
Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 

Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 

If history", the grand liar, ever saith 
The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten, 

Because she put a favourite to death, 
Her \ile ambiguous method of flirtation, 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXTI. 
But when the levee rose, and all was bu-ile 

In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratulations; 
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 

Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
It is to speculate on handsome faces, 
Especially when such lead to high places. 

lxxxhi. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general objpet of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unemharrass'd brow 

Nature had written « gentleman. » He said 
Little, hut to the purpose; and iiis manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXX IV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 

Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
Of those in office : all the world look'd kind 

(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind) ; 

As also did Miss Protosoff then there, 
Named, from her mystic office, « l'Eprouveuse,* 
A term inexplicable to the muse. 
LXXXV. 
With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a « heaven-kissiug hill.» 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, 

And all my fancies whirling iike a mill; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



CANTO X. 



i. 

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 

In that slight startle from his contemplation — 

'T is said (for I II not answer above ground 
For any sage s creed or calculation) — 

A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, call'd « gravitation;* 

And thus is the sole mortal who could grapple, 

Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. 

IT. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose, 

Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes; 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

III. 
And wherefore this exordium? — Why, just now, 

In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 

And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
And though so much inferior, as I know, 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 

The stars, I own my telescope is dim; 
But at the least I 've shunn'd the common shore, 

And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 
The ocean of eternity : the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 
But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V. 
We left our hero Juan in the bloom 

Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; 
And far be it from my Muses to presume 

(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
To follow him heyoud the drawing room : 

It is enough that fortune found him flush 
Of youth and vigour, beauty, and those things 
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 
But soon they grow again, and leave their nest. 

« Oh !» saith the Psalmist, « that I had a dove's 
Pinions, to flee away and be at rest!» 

And who, that recollects young years and loves, — 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Bevond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much rather 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather 2 



654 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Cut sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink 
Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow, 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! 

Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 

Hut coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 
And then before sighs cease; for oft the one 

Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 

Of life reach'd ten o'clock : and, while a glow, 
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die— how happy they! 

IX. 
But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favour of the moon, 

Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
Perhaps : but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 

X. 

Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young: 

The former know what's what; while new-fledged chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, or dream'd (for fancy will play tricks) 
In visions of those skies from whence love sprung. 

Some reckon women by their suns or years — 

I rather think the moon should date the dears. 

XI. 

And why? because she s changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 

May chuse to tax me with; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to « their temper or their taste,» 

As my frieud Jeffrey writes with such an air: 
However, I forgive him, and 1 trust 
He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 

m 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue — 't is a point of honour; 

And I know nothing which could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlick, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 

This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 

Even shuffling Southey — that incarnate lie- 
Would scarcely join again the «reformadoes,»' 

Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty: 
And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 

Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 
To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 



XIV. 

The lawyer aud the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
And nought remains unseen, but much untold, 

By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
While common men grow ignorantly old, 

The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

XV. 

A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty ; 

The endless soot 2 bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 

In all their habits : not so you, I own; 

As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI. 

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 

To make such puppets of us things below), 

Are over: Here 's a health to « Auld Lang Syne!» 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Your face, — but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and 1 own it from my soul. 

XVII. 

And when I use the phrase of « Auld Lang Syne!» 

' f is not address'd to you — the more 's the pity 
For me, for I would rather take my wine 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 
But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 

And yet \ seek not to be grand nor witty, 
But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
A whole one, and my heart flies to my head : — 

XVIII. 
As « Auld Lang Syne» brings Scotland, one and all, 

Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
streams, 
The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall, 3 

All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 
Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 

Like Ranquo's offspring— floating past me seems 
My childhood in this childishness of mine: 
I care not — 't is a glimpse of « Auld Lang Syne.» 

XIX. 
And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath aud rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 

Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 
Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit — 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early : 
I « scotch'd, not ki!l'd,» the Scotchman in my blood, 
And love the land of « mountain and of flood. » 

XX. 

Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 

For both are much the fame, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real 

Thau what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, 
And know no more of what is here than there : — 



DON JUAN. 



655 



XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — L 

How we won't mention, ivlty we need not say: 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way; 

Hut his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour : gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 

The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He now was growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thin;;, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 

And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 

XXIV. 

This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 

And wrinkles (the d — d democrats) won't flatter: 

XXV. 

And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great 

Gracchus of all mortality, who levels 
With his .Agrarian laws, the high estate 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels 
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 

Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 
Through all the « purple and fine linen, » filter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And this same state we won't describe: Ave would 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's « obscure wood,» 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 

Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection 

Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier 

Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear; — 



xxvni. 

I won't describe — that is, if I can help 
Description: and I won't reflect — that is, 

If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 

Clings to its teat— sticks to me through the abyss 

Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips: but, as I said, 

I won't philosophize, and will be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
A thing which happens rarely this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valour; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, 
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain: — and all his near relations, 

Perceiving he was in a handsome way 
Of getting on himself, and finding stations 

For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 
Several prepared themselves for emigrations; 

And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 
That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a-piece. 

XXXI. 

His mother, Donna Inez, finding too 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, 

lie had brought his spending to a handsome anchor, — 

Replied, « that she was glad to see him through 

Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker ; 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

XXXII. 

«She also recommended him to God, 

And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek-worship, which looks odd 
In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad : 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 

Born in a second wedlock; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 

«She could not too much give her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 

Whose age, and, what was better still, whose nation 
And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then): — 

At home it might have given her some vexation; 
But where thermometers sunk down to ten, 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.» 

XXXIV. 

Oh for a forty-parson power 4 to chaunt 
Thy praise, hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim! 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 

Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 

When she no more could read the pious print. 



656 



BYRON'S WORKS 



xxxv. 

She -was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul! 

But weut to heaven in as sincere a way 
As any hody on the elected roll, 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 

Such as the conqueror William did repay 
His knights with, lotting others' properties 
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-aud-forty manors 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 

Were their reward for following Billy's banners; 

And, though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes, 5 like tanners, 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 

You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourished, though at times 
He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes 
Save such as Southey can afford to give. 

Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 

Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty: 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old: the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
As well as further drain the wither' d form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and, however we may storm, 

They mjust be paid ; though six days smoothly run, 

The seventh will briug blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: 
Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin; 

Ouiers talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, 
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; 

Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, 
Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; 

Others again were ready to maintain, 

«'T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLL 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
itSodae-sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Mannae-optim. 

Aq. fervent. F. 3. iss. 3. ij. tinct. Sennas 

Haustus" (and here the surgeon came and cupp'd him). 

«R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanha?" 

(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em), 

« Bolus potassae sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die capiendus.» 



XLIT. 

This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artem : but although we sneer 

In health— when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer : 

While that « hiatus maxime detlcndus,» 

To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baiilie, or soft Abernethy. 

XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Quit; and, though death had threaten'd an ejection, 
His youth and constitution bore him through, 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 
The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 

Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
,Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 

Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, 

And drooping like an eagle's with clipp'd pinion, 
She then resolved to send him on a mission, 
But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to push on 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their « uti possidetis." 

XL VI. 
So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favourites, couferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendour, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card, 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, 
Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 

XLVII. 

But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning; 
Which puzzles us to know what fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were waning, 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last; 

And four-and-tweniv hours, and twice that number 
Of candidates requesting to be placed, 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber: — 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But always chusing with deliberation, 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 



DON JUAN. 



65- 



XLIX. 

While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgb.; the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair Czarina's autocratic crest 

(When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris), 

Was given to her favourite, 6 and uow bore his. 

L. 

A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 
All private favourites of Don Juan; for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
Me had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin — 
Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 

Although he was not old, uor even a maid. 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild muse varies 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LII. 

Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character, 

As rare in living beings as a fossile 

Man, "midst thy mouldy mammoths, « grand Cuvier !> 

Ill fitted with her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err : 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot. tell exactly what it was; 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, 

Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom — for he never had a sister : 

Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her! 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual; for besides 
That he was not an ancient debauchee 

(Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 
As acids rouse a dormant alkali), 

Although (twill happen as our planet guides) 
His youth was not the chastest that might be, 

There was the purest platouism at bottom 

Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV\ 

Just dow there was no peril of temptation; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride too felt that she was not enslaved, 
Owing to him; — as also her salvation, 

Through his means and the church's, might be paved. 
But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted — 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 



LVL 

'T was strange enough she should retain the impression 

Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
slaughter; 
But. though three bishops told her the transgression, 

She show'd a great dislike to holy water: 
She also had no passion for confession; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess: — no matter; 
Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LVII. 
In fact, the only Christian she could bear 

Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
In place of what her home and friends once were. 

He naturally loved what he protected ; 
And thus they form'd a rather curious pair : 

A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; 
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 

LVIII. 
Theyjourney'don through Poland and through Warsaw, 

Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 

Which gave her dukes7 the graceless name of «Biron.» 
'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 

Who march'd to Moscow, led by fame, the syren ! 
To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let not this seem an anti-climax : — « Oh ! 

My guard ! my old guard !» exclaim'd that god of clay — 
Think of the thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! — 
Alas! that glory should be chill'd by snow! 

But, should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
And Koningsberg the capital, whose vaunt, 

Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 

To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 

Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
Until he reach'd the castellated Bhine : — 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine : 

A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonu, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over, like a spectre 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone, 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 

The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 8 

83 



658 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 

Where juniper expresses its best juice — 

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
But to deny the mob a cordial which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LX1V. 

Here he embark'd, aud, with a flowing sail, 
Went bounding for the island of the free, 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; 
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, 

And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale : 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 

Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 

The blue sea's border; and Don Juan felt — 
What even young strangers feel, a little strong 

At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt— 
A kind of pride that he should be among 

Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 
Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 
And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXVI. 
I have no great cause to love that spot of earth, 

Which holds what mighthave been the noblest nation: 
But, though L owe it little but my birth, 

I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
For its decaying fame and former worth. 

.Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 
Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 
When a man's country 's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 
Alas! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd; 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
How all the uations deem her their worst foe, 

That worse than worst of foes— the once adored 
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 
And now would chain them to the very mind ; — 

LXVill. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves! The nations are 

In prison; but the jailor, what is he? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 

Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties — 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; 

Thy custom-house with all its delicate duties; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; 

Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
To those who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, 

Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 



LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 

And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 
Who did not limit much his bills per week, 

Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 
(His magyior duomo, a smart subtle Greek, 

Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it :) 
But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 
Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 

LXXI. 
On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
puddle , 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With « schnapps» — sad dogs ! whom « Huudsfot" or 

« Fernucter» 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 
Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 

Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 
As going at full speed — no matter where its 

Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, 
And merely for the sake of its own merits : 

For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 
The greater is the pleasure in arriving 
At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXII I. 
They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm, and Hecket's bloody stone, 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! all 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias, 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 

LXXIV. 
The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 

He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 
That casque, which uever stoop'd, except to Time. 

Even the bold churchman's tomb excited awe, 
Who died ia the then great attempt to climb 

O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law, 
Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 
And ask'd why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 
And being told it was « God's house,» she said 

He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
He suffer' d infidels in his home-stead, 

The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 
His holy temples in the lands which bred 

The true believers ; — aud her infant brow 
Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 
A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXX VI. 

On, on! through meadows, managed like a garden, 
A paradise of hops and high production; 

For, after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction, 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 

Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices. 



DON JUAN. 



65 9 



LXXVII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer — ■ — 

But I -won't weep! — and so, drive on, postilions! 
As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 

Juan admired these highways of free millions; 
A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 
Who «kick against the pricks» just at this juncture, 
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 

LXXVIII. 
What a delightful thing \s a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail; — but, onward as we roll, 
«Surgit amari aliquid» — the toll ! 

LXXIX. 

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! 

Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses: 
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 

Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 

On that sweet ore, which every body nurses : 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 

LXXX. 

So said the Florentine: ye monarch?, hearken 
To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 

Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 

Toward the great city: — ye who have a spark in 
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 

According as you take things well or ill — 

Bold Liritons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 

Which well beseem'd the « Devil's drawing-room, » 
As some have qualified that wondrous place. 

But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 
As one who, though he were not of the race, 

Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 

Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. 9 

LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy; 
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head— and there is London town ! 

LXXXIII. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper) ; 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 



LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I — as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old acquaintance, and at least I '11 try 

To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
Because they are so, — a male Mrs Fry, 

With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 

And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh, Mrs Fry! why go to Newgate? W T hy 

Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin 
With C— It — n, or with other houses? Try 

Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 
To mend the people 's an absurdity, 

A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 
Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 
1 thought you had more religion, Mrs Fry. 

LXXXYI. 
Teach them the decencies of good threescore: 

Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses : 
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more; 

That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses : 
Tell them Sir W-ll-m C-rt-s is a bore, 

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all; — 

LXXX VII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'T is not so to be good; and be it stated, 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; 

And tell them but you won't, and 1 have prated 

Just now enough; but by and by 1 '11 prattle 

Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO XI. 



When Bishop Berkeley said « there was no matter,» 
And proved it — 't was no matter what he said: 

They say his system 't is in vain to batter, 
Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 

And yet who can believe it? I would shatter, 
Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, 

And wear my head, denying that I w r ear it. 

II. 

What a sublime discovery 't was to make the 

Universe universal egotism! 
That all 's ideal— all ourselves? I '11 stake the 

World (be it what you will) that that's no schism. 
Oh, doubt! — if thou be'stdoubt, for which some take thee, 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hardly bearit. 



66o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



III. 

For, ever and anon comes indigestion 

(Not the most « dainty Ariel»), and perplexes 

Our soarings -with another sort of question: 
And that which, after all, my spirit vexes 

Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 

The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder — 

IV. 

If it be chance; or if it be according 

To the old text, still better! lest it should 

Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude : 

They 're right; our days are too brief for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and every body one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

V. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there: 

If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical: 
T don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

VI. 
The first attack at once proved the divinity 

(But that I never doubted, nor the devil); 
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; 

The third, the usual origin of evil; 
The fourth at once estahhsh'd the whole Trinity 

On so incontrovertible a level, 
That I devoutly wish the three were four, 
On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme : — The man who has stood on the Acropolis 

And look'd down over Attica; or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 

Or seen Tombuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 

Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not think much of London's first appearance — 
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 
Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill — 

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
Which looks along that vale of good and ill 

Where London streets ferment in full activity; 
While every thing around was calm and still, 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
Heard — and that bee like, bubbling, busy hum 
Of cities, that boils o'er with their scum : — 

IX. 
I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 
And, lost in wonder of so great a nation, 

Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 
«And here,» he cried, « is Freedom's chosen station ; 

Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 
Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 



« Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please; and if that things be dear, 

'T is only that they love to throw away 

Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. 

Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 

Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear : 

Here » he was interrupted by a knife, 

With « Damn your eyes! your money or your life.» 

XI. 
These free-born sounds proceeded from four pads, 

In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, 

Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 
In which the heedless gentleman who gads 

Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
May find himself, within that isle of riches, 
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, « God damn !» 

And even that he had so rarely heard, 

He sometimes thought 't was only their « salam,» 

Or « God be with you,» — and 't is not absurd 
To think so; for, half English as I am 

(To my misfortune), never can I say 

I heard them wish « God with you,» save that way : — 

XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 
And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 

Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 
And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 

Who fell, as roils an ox o'er in his pasture, 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, 

Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 

« Oh Jack ! 1 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman !» 

XIV. 

On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 

Game up, all marvelling at such a deed, 
And offering, as usual, late assistance. 

Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
As if his veins would pour out his existence, 

Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 

And wish'd he 'd been less hasty with his flint. 

XV. 

« Perhaps," thought he, « it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to be done? I can't allow 

The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 

So take him up; I '11 help you with the load.» 

XVI. 

But, ere they could perform this pious duty, 

The dying man cried, « Hold! I 've got my gruel! 

Oh ! for a glass of max ! We 've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am!» And, as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 

The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill 

His breath, he from his swelling throat uutied 

A kerchief, crying « Give Sal lhat!» — and died. 



DON JUAN. 



66 



xvn. 

The cravat, stain' d with bloody drops, fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 

Exactly why it was before him thrown, 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled — 

His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case, 
As soon as « crowner's quest » allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, and very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man, 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle ? 

Who queer a Hat ? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle ? 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? 1 

XX. 

But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, 't is 
Not long before the most of them go home. — 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolliug like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other «tons,« 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once; 

XXI. 

Through groves, so call'd as being void of trees 

(Like lucus from no light) ; through prospects named 

Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 
Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 

With «To be let,« upon their doors proclaim'd • 

Through «rows» most modestly call'd « Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; 

Here taverns wooing to a pint of « purl, » 
There mails fast flying off like a delusion; 

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
In windows; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass — 

(For in those days we had not got to gas) : 

XXIII. 

Through this and much and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not chuse to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 



XXIV. 

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment too his stream — 

Though hardly heard through multifarious «dam'mes.» 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam; 

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 

Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 

XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better : 
Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it? — 

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 

The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; 

The Mansion-house, too (though some people quiz it), 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 

But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights too up to Cha ring-Cross, 
Pali-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation, 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 

Match'd with the continent's illumination, 

Whose cities night by no means deigus to gloss : 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 

And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 

Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 
As also bonfires made of country-seats ; 

But the old way is best for the purblind : 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

xxvm. 

But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 

Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
And found him not amidst the various progenies 

Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 

Vet undiscover'd treasure. What /can, 
I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 
But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 
Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mall, 

Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 
As thundered knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 

Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
Admitted a small party as night fell, — 

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
St James's Palace and St James's « Hells. » 2 

XXX. 

They reach'd the hotel ; forth stream'd from the front door 
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 

The mob stood, and as usual several score 
Of those pedestrian Paphianswho abound 

In decent London when the daylight 's o'er; 
Commodious but immoral, they are found ♦ 
' Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage : 

But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 



662 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 
Especially for foreigners — and mostly 

For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 

Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission, 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 

The exact affair on which he w r as sent o'er : 

'T was merely known that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 

Young, handsome, and accomplished, who was said 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary; but then 't is in the head; 

Yet, as the consequences are as bright 
As if they acted with the heart instead, 

What after all can signify the site 

Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which they start, 

What matters if the road be head or heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 

To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those who govern in the mood potential, 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster, 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do; but by 
And by we '11 talk of that; and if we don't, 

'T will be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very trulh seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? T is but 
The truth in masquerade; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 

The very shadow of true truth would shut 
Up annals, revelations, poesy, 

And prophecy— except it should be dated 

Some years before the incidents related. 



XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy ? 

She rings the world's «Te Deum,» and her brow 
Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 

Is idle; let us, like most others, bow, 
Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 

After the good example of « Green Erin,» 

Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing. 

XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration— 

I don't know which was most admired or less : 
One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 

Which Catherine, in a moment of « ivresse » 
(In love or brandy's fervenc fermentation), 

Bestow'd upon him as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 

Who must be courteous to the accredited 
Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 

Until their royal riddle 's fully read, 
The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 

Of office, or the house of office, fed 
By foul corruption into streams — even they 
Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 

XLI. 
And insolence no doubt is what they are 

Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, 
In the dear offices of peace or war; 

And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neigh- 
bour, 
When for a passport, or some other bar 

To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore) 
If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches, 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLI1. 
But Juan was received with much « empressement : » — 

These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
From our next neighbour's land, where, like a chessman, 

There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 

In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough, 
More than on continents — as if the sea 
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLHI. 
And yet the British «dam'me » s rather Attic : 

Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 
And turn on things which no aristocratic 

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent 3 
This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 

In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't : — 
But «dam'me» s quite etherial, though too daring — 
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 



DON JUAN. 



663 



XLV. 

In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth ihe west or worst end of a city, 

And about twice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty, 

But to sit up while others lie in bed, 

And look down on the universe with pity — 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 

Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
'T is also of seme moment to the latter : 

A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
Bequires decorum, and is apt to double 
The horrid sin — and, what 's still worse, the trouble. 

XLVII. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies; and could be sad 
Or cheerful, without any « flaws or starts,» 

Just at the proper time; and, though a lad, 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XL VIII. 

Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues; 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse; 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish « drapery misses»* 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 

Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. 

L. 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 

And with the pages of the last review- 
Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 

Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: 
They talk'd bad French of Spanish, and upon its 

Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two; 
And which was softest, Bussian or Castilian? 
And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? 

LI. 
Juan, who was a little superficial, 

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 
Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer : 
His duties warlike, loving, or official, 

His steady application as a dancer, 
Had kept him from the brink of Uippocrene, 
Which now he found was blue instead of green. 



LII. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 

And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith 

(Who, at sixteen, translated « Hercules Furens» 

Into as furious English), with her best look, 

Set down his sayings in her common-place book. 

LIII. 

Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme; 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime: 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Ma3via Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIV. 

However he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

That being about their average numeral; 
Also the eighty « greatest living poets, » 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 

LY. 
In twice five years the « greatest living poet,» 

Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 

Although 't is an imaginary thing. 
Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it, 

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — 
Was reckon'd, a considerable time, 
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint-Jean seems Cain: 

« La Belle Alliauce» of dunces down at zero, 
Now that the lion's fall'n, may rise again : 

But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 

Or to some lonely isle of jailors go, 

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 

lvii. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
Before and after; but now, grown more holy, 

The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 



LVIII. 



664 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIX. 

Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 
He '11 find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; 

And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, « Savage Landor,» 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats — who was kilf'd off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow! his was an untoward fate : 

T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 5 

Should let itself be snuffd out by an article. 

LXT. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty 

Mock tyrants, when Piome's annals wax'd but dirty. 

LXIL 

This is the literary lower empire, 

Where the Praetorian bands take up the matter; — 
A « dreadful trade," like his who « gathers samphire, » 

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, 
With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I 'd try conclusions with those janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 

I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while 

With such small gear to give myself concern : 
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile; 

My natural temper's really aught but stern, 
And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile; 

And then she drops a brief and modest curtsey, 

And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 

Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 

With some small profit through that field so sterile. 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 

And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 

Amongst the higher spirits of the day, 

The sun's true son — no vapour, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His morns he pass'd in business — which, dissected, 
Was like all business, a laborious nothing, 

That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 

Which grows no better, though 't is time it should. 



LXVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons 

Call'd « Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; 
But after all it is the only « bowers 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar 
Through street and square fast-flashing chariots, hurl'd 

Like harness'd meteors ! then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly paradise of « or molu.» 

LXVIII. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandth curtsey; there the waltz — 

The only dance which teaches girls to think — 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, all o'erflow beyond their brink, 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 

Of the good company, can win a corner, 

A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way, 

Where he may fix himself, like small «Jack Horner," 

And let the Babel round run as it may, 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by; and he 
Who like Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where 

He deems it is his proper place to be; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill 

Where science marshals forth her own quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress, or his neighbour's bride, 

Let him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste : impatience is a blundering guide 

Amongst a people famous for reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; 

Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle : — 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 



DON JUAN. 



665 



LXXIII. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 

Only the common run, who must pursue, 
And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 

Or little overturns; and not the few 
Or many (for the number 's sometimes such) 

Whom a good mien, especially if new, 
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 
Permits whate'er they please, or did not Jong since. 

LXXIV. 
Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 
Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom 

Before he can escape from so much danger 
As will envirou a conspicuous man. Some 

Talk about poetry, and « rack and manger,» 
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble; — 
I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth- — it is anticipated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous; 
Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; 

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a Jew: 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribune's crew; 
And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
The family vault receives another lord. 

LXXVI. 

« Where is the world, » cries Young, « at eighty! Where 

The world in which a man was born ?» Alas! 
Where is the world of eight years past? 'Tivas there — 

I look for it — 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 
Where it Napoleon the Grand? God knows : 

Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: 
Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 

Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? 
Where is the unhappy queen, with all her woes? 

And where the daughter, whom the isles loved well? 
Where are those martyr'd saints, the five per cents? 
And where — oh where the devil are the rents? 

LXXVIII. 
Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wel- 
lesley? Diddled. 

Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the 
Third ? 
Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) 

And where is « Fum» the Fourth, our « royal bird?» 
Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 
« Cawme,cawthee» — for six months hath been hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 
Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? 

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? 
Some laid aside like an old opera-hat, 

Married, unmarried, and remarried — (this is 
An evolution oft perform'd of late). 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses? 
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd, as usual. Where 
My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. 



LXXX. 

here are the Lady Carolines and Franceses ? 



Divorced or doing there anent. Ye annals 
So brilliant., where the list of routs and dances is — 

Thou Morning Post, sole records of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 

Of fashion— say what streams now fill those channels ? 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXI. 
Some who once set their cap at cautious dukes, 

Have taken up at length with younger brothers; 
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks ; 

Some maids have been made wives— some merely 
mothers; 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks ; 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
There 's little strange in this, but something strange is 
The unusual quickness of these common changes. 

LXXX1I. 
Talk nGt of seventy years as age; in seven 

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 
The humblest individual under heaven, 

Than might suffice a moderate century through. 
I kuew that nought was lasting, but now even 

Change grows too changeable, without being new : 
Nought s permanent among the human race, 
Except the Whigs not getting into place. 

LXXXIII. 
I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke 
(Xq matter which) turn politician stupider, 

If that can well be, than his wooden look. 
But it is time that I should hoist my « blue Peter,» 

And sail for a new theme: I have seen — and shook 
To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; 
Rut don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 

I have seen the landholders without a rap — 
T have seen Johanna Southcote — I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 
I have seen that sad affair of the late queen — 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's-cap — 
I have seen a congress doing all that 's mean — 

I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses 

Kick off their burthens — meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land — 
I 've seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers — 

I 've seen the people ridden o'er like sand 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 

Exchanged for « thin potations" by John Bull — 

I 've seen John half detect himself a fool. 

LXXXYI. 

But « carpe diem,» Juan, « carpe, carpe !» 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour d by the same harpy. 

« Life 's a poor playern — then « play out the play, 
Ye villains !» and, above all, keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say : 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what you see. 

H 



666 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befel our hero, in the land 
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country? But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 't is as well at once to understand, 
You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIII. 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 

Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 

Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting countess, 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth, 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages, 

For being too excursive in his homages — 

XC. 

Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
So much the better! — I may stand alone, 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



CANTO XII. 



i. 

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man; it is — I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

And don't know justly what we would be at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were; — 

II. 

Too old for youth — too young, at thirty-five, 

To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore- 

I wonder people should be left alive : 

But, since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive; 
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er ; 

And money, that most pure imagination, 

Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 



III. 

Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain-cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And v/onder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 

IV. 
Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 

And adding still a little through each cross 
(Which will come over things), beats love or liquor, 

The gamesters counter, or the statesman's dross. 
Oh gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. 

V. 
Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 

O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain 

(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber 
all)? 
Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 

Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? 
The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring? — 
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow, Christian Baring. 

VI. 
Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 
Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 
Republics also get involved a bit ; 

Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 
On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 
Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VII. 
W T hy call the miser miserable? as 

'. said before : the frugal life is his, 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause, 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? 
Because, you '11 say, nought calls for such a trial ; — 
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. 

VIII. 

He is your only poet; — passion, pure 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, display?., 

Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 

Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure ; 
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; 

While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes 

Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side are his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes; 

While he, despising every sensual call, 

Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 



DON JUAN. 



Gtr 



Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

Au hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 

Even with the very ore which makes them base; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of bis nation, 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
May be the hoarder's principle of action, 

The fool will call such mania a disease : — 

What is his own? Go — look at each transaction-, 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
Than the mere plodding thro' each « vulgar fraction?)) 

Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! 

Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who 's wiser? 

XII. 

How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 

(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 

Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 

But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 

Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines, 

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 

Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 

XIII. 

« Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, » — « for love 
Is heaven, and heaven is love :» — so sings the bard ; 

Which it were rather difficult to prove 
(A thing with poetry in general hard). 

Perhaps there may be something in « the grove,» 
At least it rhymes to «love,» but I 'm prepared 

To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 

If «courts» and « camps» be quite so sentimental, 

XIV. 

But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone; 1 
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides; 

Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none ; 
Without cash, Mai thus tells you— « take no brides." 

So cash rules love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides; 

And, as for « heaven» being « love,» why not say honey 

Is wax? Heaven is not love, 't is matrimony. 

XV. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 

After a sort; but somehow people never 

With the same thought the two words have help'd out : 

Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, 
And marriage also may exist without, 

But love sans banns is both a sin and shame, 

And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

Now if the « court" and « camp» and « grove» be not 
Recruited all with constant married men, 

Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, 
I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 

Strange too in my «buon camerado» Scott, 
So celebrated for his morals, when 

My Jeffrey held him up as an example 

To me; — of which these morals arc a sample. 



XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth, 

The only time when much success is needed : 
And my success produced what I in sooth 

Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded— 
Whate'er it was, 't was mine; I 've paid, in truth, 

Of late the penalty of such success, 

But have notlearn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 
In an appeal to the unborn,- whom they, 

In the faith of their procreative creed, 
Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 

To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
To lean on for support in any way; 

Since odds are that posterity will know 

No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why, I 'm posterity — and so are you; 

And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. 
Were every memory written down all true, 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd ; 
And Mitford, in the nineteenth century, 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 1 

XX. 

Good people all, of every degree 

Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 

In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be 
As serious as if I had for inditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce : the last set free 
The negroes, and is worth a million fighters; 

While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 

And Malthus does the thing gainst which he writes. 

XXI. 

I 'm serious — so are all men upon paper : 
And why should I not form my speculation, 

And hold up to the sun my little taper? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 

On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; 
While sages write against all procreation, 

Unless a man can calculate his means 

Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 

That 's noble ! that 's romantic ! For my part, 

I think that «philo-genitiveness» is — 
(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart, 

Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this, 
If that politeness set it not apart; 

But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss) — 
I say, methinks that « philo-genitiveness» 
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 

XXIII. 

And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one, 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 



668 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate : 
All countries have their « lions,» hut in thee 
There is hut one superh menagerie. 

XXV. 

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

« Paulo majora.» Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of being « taken in,» 

Above the ice had like a skaiter glided : 
When tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures -who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 
But these are few, and in the end they make 

Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows ; 
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 

To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 
Quick silver small-talk, ending (if you note it) 
With the kind world's amen — « Who would have 
thought it?» 

xxvii. 

The little Leila, with her orient eyes 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise, 

To the surprise of people of condition, 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition), 
Her charming figure and romantic history, 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 
The women much divided — as is usual 

Amongst the sex in little things or great. 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all— 

I have always liked you better than I state, 
Since I 've grown moral : still I must accuse you all 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Amongst you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 

In one point only were you settled — and 

You had reason ; 't was that a young child of Grace, 

As beautiful as her own native land, 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 

Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 

Would be much better taught beneath the eye 

Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition, 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition; 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 

Whose tale belongs to « Hallam's Middle Ages,» 



XXXI. 

A.ud one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 

Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and «out,»— 
For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money). 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honourable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 

The watchful mothers and the careful sisters 
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where «'t is gold that glisters,*) 
Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy, 

Buzz round «the Fortune" with their busy battery, 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery! 

XXXIII. 

Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
«Tantaene?» Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's « Dover !» 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three dozen. 

'T is fine to see them scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 
(Friends of the party), who begin accusals 

Such as— « Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 

To his billets? Why waltz with him ! Why, I pray, 

Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day? 

XXXV. 

« Why? — Why?— Besides, Fred, really was attach'd; 

'T was not her fortune — he has enough without: 
The time will come she '11 wish that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I '11 tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
And after all poor Frederick may do better- 
Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 

Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives : 

And when at last the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives, 

It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure 2 

(If 't is not vain examples to recal) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
See nought more strange in this than t'other lottery. 



DON JUAN. 



669 



XXXVIII. 

I, for my part— (one « modern instance" more), 
« Truej 't is a pity— pity 't is, 't is tfue»— 

Was cliosen from out an amatory score, 

Albeit my years were less discreet than few; 

Cut, though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon were to be two, 

I '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice, 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon me digression — or at least 
Peruse! T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, 

My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Not as they ought to be: for I avow, 

That till we see what 's what in fact, we're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 

But first of Little Leila we '11 dispose ; 

For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows, 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure, 
Like many people every body knows: 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out that he was no tutor 
(I wish that others would find out the same) ; 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame: 

So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 

Consulting the « Society for Vice 

Suppression, » Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden she was — but had been very young : 
Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe: 

Although the world has such an evil tongue 
That — but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 

In fact there 's nothing makes me so much grieve 

As that abominable tittle-tattle, 

Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 

Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way), 
And so may every one except a dunce, 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 



XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 

Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion, — 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you '11 find from many a family picture, 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experiei.-ce rather than by lecture, 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty? 

But now no more the ghost of scandal stalk'd about; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 

And several of her best bon mots were hawk'd about ; 
Then she was given to charity and pity, 

And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLVIII. 

High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
She was the mild reprover of the young 

Whenever — which means every day — they'd shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 

The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 

Or at the least would lengthen out my song: — 

In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest in her, which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan too was a sort of favourite with her, 

Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 

A little spoil'd but not so altogether; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither: 
Though this might ruin others, it. did not him, 

At least entirely — for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth to be surprised at any. 

L. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 

For when they happen at a riper age, 
People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage; 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 

LI. 

How far it profits is another matter, — 

Our hero gladly saw his littl-e charge 
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 

Being long married, and thus set at large, 
Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 

To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's barge, 
To the next comer; or — as it will tell 
More muse-like — like Cytherea's shell. 



67c 



BYIION'S WORKS. 



I call such things transmission ; for there is 
A floating balance of accomplishment 

Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
According as their minds or backs are bent: 

Some waltz; some draw,- some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics; others are content 

With music ; the most moderate shine as wits, 

While others have a genius tnrn'd for fits. 

LTIT. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent in these our days 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of « elegant,» et cetera, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 
But now I will begin my poem. 'T is 

Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 
That from the first of cantos up to this 

I 've not begun what we have to go through : 
These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 

Preludios, trying just a string or two 
Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 
And when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 

About what's call'd success, or not succeeding: 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they 've chosen : 
'T is a « great moral lesson» they are reading. 

I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading, 

If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts. 
Yclept the great world ; for it is the least, 

Although the highest: but as swords have hilts 
By which their power of mischief is increased, 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west or east, 

Must still obey the high — which is their handle, 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. 

LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, and was 
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 

Of friendship which you may accept or pass; 
It does nor good nor harm, being merely meant 

To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 
And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent: 

And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 

For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVill. 

A young unmarried man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part to play; 

For good society is but a game, 

«The royal game of goose,» as I may say, 

Where every body has some separate aim, 
An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 



L1X. 

I don 't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits: 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 
« Fishers for men,» like sirens with soft lutes ; 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother, 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd; 

Perhaps you'll have a visit from the brother, 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What « your intentions are?» — One way or other 
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 

And between pity for her case and yours, 

You'll add to matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 
I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus, 

And some of them high names: I have also known 
Young men who — though they hated to discuss 

Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown — 
Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, 

Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 
And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXIL 

There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated: 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 

It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 

« Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such is your old coquette, who can't say « No,» 
And won't say « Yes,» and keeps you on and offing, 

On a lee shore, till it begins to blow — 

Then sees your heart wreck'd,with an inward scoffing : 

This works a world of sentimental woe, 

And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

« Ye gods, I grow a talker !» Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
Is when, without regard to « Church or State," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest)— 
But in old England when a young bride errs, 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers; 

LXV. 

For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
Country, where a young couple of the same ages 

Can't form a friendship but the world o'erawes it. 
Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d — d damages 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it ! — 
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages; 

Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 

And evidences which regale all readers ! 



DON JUAN. 



6 7 j 



LXVI. 

But they who hi under thus are raw beginners; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners. 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So geutle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXYII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick — no, 't was not the word sicAImeant— 
But he had seen so much good love before, 

That he was not in heart so very weak;—! meant 
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 

LXYIH. 
But coming young from lauds and scenes romantic, 

Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for passion, 
And passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 

Into a country where 't is half a fashion, 
Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 

Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation ; 
Besides (alas ! his taste— forgive and pity !) 
At first he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 
I say at first— for he found out at last, 

But by degrees, that they were fairer far 
Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 

Beneath the influence of the eastern star — 
A further proof we should not judge in haste; 

Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
To taste : — the truth is, if men would confess, 
That novelties please less than they impress. 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place, Tombuctoo, 
Where geography finds no one to oblige her 

With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like « bos piger :v 

But if I had been at Tombuctoo, there 

No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 

LXXT. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eye-sight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '11 attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I'm right; 

Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what see'st thou? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 

Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame : 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 



LXXIII. 
Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 

Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes; — 
Xot that there 's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows 3 

Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: 
They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 
As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIY. 

But this has nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides, 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXY. 

j She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 
Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 
I Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which I still am learning 
To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 
And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily); — 

LXXYI. 

[ She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his due : 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile. 

Nor settles all things in one interview 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil) ; — 

But though the soil may give you time and trouble. 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

LXXYH. 
And if in fact she takes to a « grande passion." 

It is a very serious thing indeed ; 
Nine times in ten t is but caprice or fashion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
| For there 's no saying what they will or may do. 

LXXYIII. 

; The reason 's obvious : if there *s an eclat, 

They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias ; 

And when the delicacies of the law 

Have fill'd their papers with their comments various 

Society, that china without flaw, 

(The hypocrite!) will banish them like Marius, 

To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt : 

For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXX IX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 

A comment on the Gospel's <■< Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven :« — but upon this 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an open door 

For her return to virtue — as they call 

The ladv who should be at home to all. 



672 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXX. 

For me, f leave the matter where I find it, 

Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
People some ten tiroes less in fact to mind it, 

And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 
And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 

By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, 
By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 

Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 

A lady altogether to his mind. 
A little « blase» — 't is not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
And though not vainer from his past success, 
No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXIT. 

He also had been busy seeing sights — 
The parliament and all the other houses ; 

Had sate beneath the galleries at nights, 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 

The world to gaze upon those northern lights^ 

Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses : 

He had also stood at times behind the throne — 

But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 

LXXXIH. 

He saw, however, at the closing session, 

That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'T is not mere splendour makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There too he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A prince, the prince of princes, at the time 

With fascination in his very bow, 

And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow, 

He had then the grace too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A fiuish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : 
The talent and good humour he display'd, 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

lxxxvi. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, 

Is not to be put hastily together; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), I don't know whether 
I '11 leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 5 



LXXXVII. 

Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 

You 11 find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 't will be when done : 

The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader! to read on ; 

That 's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader ! you have had before 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles 
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what else ; 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon « political economy.» 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 

It grows an act of patriotic charity, 

To show the people the best way to break. 

My plan (but I, if but for singularity, 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers, 

And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. 



CANTO XIII. 



1. 

I now mean to be serious;— it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. 

A jest at vice by virtue 's call'd a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious: 

Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary us; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

II. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

(T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 
I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 

I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue, 

Is no great matter, so 't is in request : 
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair; and no man, 
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman. 



DON JUAN 



6 7 3 



IV. 
And after that serene and somewhat dull 

Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 
More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, 

We may presume to criticise or praise; 
Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; 
Also because the figure and the face 
Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. 

V. 
I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line : 
But then they have their claret and madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline; 
And county meetings and the Parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the a nation: 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm? 

The landed and the monied speculation? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 

Instead of love, that mere hallucination? 
Xow hatred is by far the longest pleasure; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 

Pdght honestly, « he liked an honest hater» — » 
The only truth that yet has been confess d 

Within these latest thousand years or later. 
Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest;— 

For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 
And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 
Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles; 

VIII. 
But neither love nor hate in much excess; 

Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales 't is the saddest — and more sad, 
Because it makes us smile ; his hero 's right, 

And still pursues the right; — to curb the bad, 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight, 

His guerdon : 't is his virtue makes him mad! 
But his adventures form a sorry sight; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 

To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 

Opposing singly the united strong, 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless native; — 

Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song, 
Be for mere fancy's sport a thing creative? 

A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought 1 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote"! 



XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; 

A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
Of his own country; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory as a composition 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I 'm « at my old Lunesn — digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net 

(Fate is a good excuse for our owti will), 
And caught them; what do they not catch, methinks? 
But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a sphinx. 

XIII. 
I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : « Davus sum !« 
And now I will proceed upon the pair, 

Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, 
Was the queen bee, the glass of all that 's fair; 

Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb . 
The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
And since that time there has not been a second. 

XIV. 

Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation, 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 

Though apt to act with fire upon occasion : 
Proud of himself and her; the world could tell 

Nought against either, and both seem'd secure — 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations, 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 

Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 

j And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

j In judging men — when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 

j Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 

j And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 
Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 
His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 

Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more 
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 

And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 
His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, 

Of common likings, which make some deplore 
What they should laugh at — the mere ague still 
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



XVIII. 

« 'T is not in mortals to command success; 

But do you more, Sempronius — don't deserve it.» 
And take my word, you won't have any less : 

Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it; 
Give gently way, where there 's too great a press; 

And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it, — 
For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 

As most men do, the little or the great; 
The very lowest find out an inferior, 

At least they think so, to exert their state 
Upon : for there are very few things wearier 

Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 
Which mortals generously would divide, 
By bidding others carry while they ride. 

XX. 
In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 

O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 
In years he had the advantage of time's sequel; 

And, as he thought, in country much the same — 
Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 

At which all modern nations vainly aim; 
And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 
So that few members kept the House up later. 

XXI. 
These were advantages : and then he thought — 

It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 
That few or none more than himself had caught 

Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 
He liked to teach that which he had been taught, 

And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; 
And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 
Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honour' d him for his docility, 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop, — 
For then they are very difficult to slop. 

XXIII. 

And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places; 

Where people always did as they were bid, 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 

Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid 

Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races : 

And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 

Could back a horse, as despots ride a Bussian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 

For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
As in Freemasonry a higher brother. 

Upon his talent Henry had no doubts, 

His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother; 

And all men like to show their hospitality 

To him whose breeding marches with his quality. 



XXV. 

At Blank-Blank Square ;— for we will break no squares 
By naming streets : since men are so censorious, 

And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares 
Beaping allusions private and inglorious, 

Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 

That therefore do I previously declare, 

Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin 2 another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doth not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares, 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 

Such are — but I have lost the London chart. 

XXVIII. 

At Henry's mansion then in Blank-Blank Square, 
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 

As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest; 

Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere; 
Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 

Becommendation, and to be well dress'd 

Will very often supersede the rest. 

XXIX. 

And since « there 's safety in a multitude 

Of counsellors," as Solomon has said, 
Or some one for him, in some sage grave mood : — 

Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 

Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
Which is the only cause that we can guess 
Of Britain's present wealth and happiness; — 

XXX. 

But as « there 's safety grafted in the number 
Of counsellors" for men, — thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber; 

Or, should it shake, the choice will more perplex — 

Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks; 

And thus with women : howsoe'er it shock some's 

Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 

Which judged mankind at their due estimation; 
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it: 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 



DON JUAN. 



6 7 5 



XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ;— 

A gentle genial courtesy of mind, 
To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious: 

XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men, 
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, 

The praise of persecution. Gaze again 

On the most favour'd ; and, amidst the blaze 

Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 

What can ye recognize? — A gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 

That calm patrician polish in the address, 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any thing which Nature would express: 

Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess 

That any thing he views can greatly please, 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese — 

XXXV. 

Herhaps from Horace ; his « Nil admirari» 
Was what he call'd the « Art of Happiness ;» 

An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
And have not yet attain'd to much success. 

However, 't is expedient to be wary: 

Indifference certes don't produce distress; 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 

Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent : for, 

(Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow, 

As a volcano holds the lava more 

Within — et cetera. Shall I go on? — No ! 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor : 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Poor thing ! how frequently by me and others, 

It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! 

XXXVII. 

I '11 have another figure in a trice : 

What say you to a bottle of Champagne ! 

Frozen into a very vinous ice, 

Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 

Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
About a liquid glassful will remain; 

And this is stronger than the strongest grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 

And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 

And such are many — though I only meant her, 
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, 

On which the Muse has always sought to enter :— 
And your cold people are beyond all price, 
When once you 've broken their confounded ice. 



XXXIX. 

But after all they are a North-West passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal ; 
For, if the Pole 's not open, but all frost 
(A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman; 

While those who 're not beginners, should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon 

With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense, 
The dreary « fuimus* of all things human, 

Must be declined, whilst life's thin thread 's spun out 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLT. 

But Heaven must be diverted : its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind : 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. 

XLII. 

The English winter — ending in July, 

To recommence in August — now was done. 

'T is the postilion's paradise : wheels fly ; 

On roads east, south, north, west, there is a run. 

But for post-horses who finds sympathy ? 
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 

XLIII. 

The London winter 's ended in July — 

Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
In this : whatever other blunders lie 

Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
My Muse a glass of Weatherology, 

For Parliament is our barometer ; 
Let Badicals its other acts attack, 
Its sessions form our only almanack. 

XLIV. 

When its quicksilver's down at zero, — lo ! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho, 

And happiest they who horses can engage : 
The turnpikes glow with dust, and Botten Bow 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age ; 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
Sigh, as the post-boys fasten on the traces. 

XLV. 

They and their bills, « Arcadians both,» 3 are left 
To the Greek kalends of another session. 

Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft, 

What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, 

Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 

At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, — 

Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ; — 

Also the solace of an overcharge. 



6 7 6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL VI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, 
Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage. 

Away ! away ! « Fresh horses !» are the word, 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage. 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The post-boys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, 

The ostler pleads for a reminiscence. 

xlvii. 

'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey — 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen; 

Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint, « Cosi viagino i ricchi!» 

(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 

If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel, 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) 

XLVIII. 

The London winter and the country summer 
Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, 

When Nature wears the gown that doth become her, 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening debates not very wise or witty, 

Ere patriots their true country can remember ; — 

But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 

XLIX. 

I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand for whom earth was made, 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone, — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests or more; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality- 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 
Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 

Departed, like the rest of their compeers, 
The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 

The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
None than themselves could boast a longer line, 

Where time through heroes and through beauties 
steers ; 
And oaks, as olden as their pedigree, 
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 
A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modern fame : 
'T is pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 
When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 

The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim — 
« Departure, for his country seat to-day, 
Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LII. 

« We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends; 

Midst whom, we have heard from sources quite 
correct, 
The Duke of D the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd; 
Also a foreigner of high condition, 
The envoy of the secret Bussian mission. » 



LIII. 

And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post? 

(Whose articles are like the « thirty-nine,» 
Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 

Our gay Buss Spaniard was ordain' d to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, 

With those who, Pope says, « greatly daring dine.» 
T is odd, but true, — last war, the news abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded. — 

LIV. 

As thus : « On Thursday there was a grand dinner; 

Present, lords A. B. C.» — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column : « Date, Falmouth, There has lately been here 

The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ; 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
The vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazette. » 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, 

An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 

Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
Few specimens yet left us can compare 

Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, 
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 
To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Grown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke ; 
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters — as day awoke 
The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. 

LVII. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

LVIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 

Its shriller echoes— like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet; and, thus allay'd, 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 

Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. , 
A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, 
In gazing on that venerable arch. 



DON JUAN. 



'77 



LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone: 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of full many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought itfvain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, 

With her son in her bless'd arms, look'd around, 
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild, 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

lxii. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, 
Streaming from off the sun like seraphs' wings, 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

LXIII. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
Is musical — a dying accent driven ' 

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 

Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 

And harmonized by the old choral wall: 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape or form, 

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
(Though less than that of Memuou's statue, warm 

In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 
To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm, 

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower : 
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such 
The fact: — I 've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 

LXV. 
Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: 
The spring gush'd through grim mouths, of granite made, 

And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 
Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
The cells too and refectory, I ween: 

An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 

The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 



LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 

Might shock a connoisseur: but, when combined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 

Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 

We gaze upon a giant for his stature, 

Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation; 
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls, 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station; 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls: 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely: 

LXIX. 

Judges, in very formidable ermine, 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right: 
Bishops who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the « Star Chamber » than of « Habeas Corpus. » 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armour, of the old 
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: 
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'd the steed ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 

But, ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's: 4 

Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

lxxh. 

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Bembrandt made nis darkness equal light, 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite: — 
But lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish 5 
Or Dutch with thirst— What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

LXXI II. 

Oh, reader! if that thou canst read,— and know 
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, 

To constitute a reader; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 

Firstly, begin with the beginning (though 
That clause is hard), and secondly, proceed; 

Thirdly, commence not with the end— or, sinning 

In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 



6 7 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXIV. 
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 

While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
Have built and laid out grouud at such a rate, 

Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
That poets were so from their earliest date, 

By Homer's « Catalogue of Ships» is clear; 
But a mere modern must be moderate — 
I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 

The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket: — lynx-like is his aim, 

Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. 

Ah, nutbrown partridges! ah, brilliant pheasants! 

And ah, ye poachers! — 'T is no sport for peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song, 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; 
The claret light, and the madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 

LXXVII. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 

As if 't would to a second spring resign 
The season, rather than to winter drear, — 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
The sea-coal fires, the earliest of the year; 

Without doors too she may compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chase. 
So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, 6 

And wear the Melton jacket for a space : — 
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fuike ; the Countess Crabbey; 
The Ladies, Scilly, Busey; Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss OTabby, 
And Mrs Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw : 

Also the Honourable Mrs Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — but rank; 

At once the « lie» and the « elite» of crowds; 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, 

All purged and pious from their native clouds; 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The « passee» and the past; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety : 



LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station; 

And so that no explosion cry « aroint 

Thee, witch !» or each Medea has her Jason; 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci), 

« Omne tulit punctum, qua? miscuit utile dulci.n 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery ; 

I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie : 

Also a so-so matron boldly fight 

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 

And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 

Escaping with a few slight scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I 've seen more than I '11 say : — but we will see . 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Bramins of the ton. 
I 've named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly, 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly 

Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star. 
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free-thinker ; 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
« Ay, every inch a» duke; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears ! 

All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVI. 

There were four honourable Misters, whose 

Honour was more before their names than after ; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 

Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here, 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because — such was his magic power to please, — 

The dice seem'd charm' d too with his repartees. 

LXXXV1I. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; 

Sir Henry Silver-cup the great race-winner. 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 



DON JUAN. 



6 79 



LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welch Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, 

In his grave office so completely skill'd, 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 
Good company 's a chess-hoard — there are kings, 

Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world's a 
game; 
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings; , 

Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 
My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 

Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 
Alighting rarely : were she but a hornet, 
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

XC. 
I had forgotten— but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session, 
Who had deliver' d well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With this debut, which made a strong impression, 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
« The best first speech that ever yet was made.» 

XCI. 
Proud of his « Hear hims !» proud too of his vote, 

And lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
With memory excellent to get by rote, 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story ; 
Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
«His country's pride,» he came down to the country. 

XCII. 
There also were two wits by acclamation, 

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 
Both lawyers, and both men of education; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed : 
Longbow was rich in an imagination 

As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 
But sometimes stumbling over a potatoe, — 
While Strongbow's best things might have come from 
Gato. 

XCIII. 
Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an jEolian harp, 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word; 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp: 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIV. 

If all these seem a heterogeneous mass, 

To be assembled at a country-seat, 
Yet think a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
The days of comedy are gone, alas! 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete : 
Society is smoothed to that excess, 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 



XCY. 

Our ridicules are kept in the back ground, 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull; 
Professions too are no more to be found 

Professional; and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit ; for though your fools abound, 

They 're barren and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

XGVI. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Further I 'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs Adams, where she cries 

«That scriptures out of church are blasphemies.»7 

XGVII. 

But when we can, we glean in this vile age 
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
Eit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 

Who, in his common-place book, had a page 

Prepared each morn for evenings. « List, oh list!»— 

« Alas, poor ghost !>•- — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 

XCVIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
By many windings to their clever clinch ; 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
If possible; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talker puts them to the test, 

But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. 

XCIX. 

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests : 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 

C. 
Witness the lands which « flow'd with milk and honey,» 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
To this we 've added since the love of money, 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; 

We tire of mistresses and parasites : 
But oh, ambrosial cash! ah! who would lose thee? 
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! 

CI. 
The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 

Or hunt; the young because they liked the sport — 
The first thing boys like after play and fruit : 

The middle-aged, to make the day more short; 
For ennui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language; we retort 
The fact for words, and let the French translate 
That awful yawn which sleep cannot 



68o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



err. 

The elderly walk'd through the library, 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 

And made upon the hothouse several strictures, 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 

Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 

GUI. 

But none were « gene :» the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

Where, when, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 
The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 

Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale; 

Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail; 

And settled bonnets by the newest code; 
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 
To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

CV. 

For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she-epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal, 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

CVI. 

Then there were billiards; cards too, but no dice; 

Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays; — 
Boats when 't was water, skaiting when 't was ice, 

And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days : 
And angling too, that solitary vice, 

Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says : 
The quaiut, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 8 

CVII. 

With evening came the banquet and the wine; 

The conversazione; the duet, 
Attuned by voices more or less divine 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet). 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze : 
Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 

Flirtation — but decorous; the mere praise 

Of charms chat should or should not be admired; 

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 



CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; 
The wits watch" d every loop-hole for their art, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart, 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it, 
And then, even then some bore may make them lose it. 

CX. 

But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 

There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old; 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
We 've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, 
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour ; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
But in the country ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true colours soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 



CANTO XIV. 



If from great Nature's or our own abyss 

Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss — 
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 

But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 
x\fter due search, your faith to any question? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. 

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 

And yet what are your other evidences ? 

III. 

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, 

Except perhaps that you were born to die? 
And both may after all turn out untrue. 

An age may come, font of eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 

Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 

And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 



DON JUAN. 



68 



A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 

Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet 
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! 

The very suicide, that pays his debt 
At once without instalments (an old way 

Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
Lets out impatiently his rushing breatli, 
Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 

V. 
'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where; 

And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
• The worst to know it : — when the mountains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

VI. 
T is true, you don't — but, pale anJ struck with terror, 

Pietire : but look into your past impression! 
And you will find, though shu'ddering at the mirror 

Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, 
The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 

To the unknown; a secret prepossession, 
To plunge with all your fears— but where ? You know not, 
And that 's the reason why you do — or do not. 

VII. 

But what 's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing; a mere speculation, 
For which my sole excuse is — 't is my way. 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
I write what 's uppermost, without delay : 

This narrative is not meant for narration, 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with common-places. 

VIII. 
You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 

« Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind 
blows; » 
And such'a straw, borne on by human breath, 

Is poesy, according as the mind glows; — 
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 

A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: 
And mine 's a bubble not blown up for praise, 
But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 
The world is all before me — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind; — 

Of passions too, I 've proved enough to blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 

X. 

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other : that 's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few; 

And yet I can't help scribbling once a-week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 

And now because I feel it growing dull. 



XI. 

But «why then publish? » — There are no rewards 

Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 
I ask in turn, — why do you play at cards? 

Why drink? Why read? — To make some hour less 
dreary. 
It occupies me to turn back regards 

On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; 
And what I write I cast upon the stream, 
To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 
I think that were I' certain of success, 

I hardly could compose another line : 
So long I 've battled either more or less, 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling t is not easy to express, 

And yet 't is not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your chusing — 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction : 

She gathers a repertory of facts, 
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 

But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction; 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts; 
And were her object only what 's call'd glory, 
With more ease too, she 'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; 
A bird's-eye view too of that wild, Society; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety 

Both in performance and in preparation; 
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, 
Trade will be all the better for these cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 

Is one of which there 's no description recent : 
The reason why, is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 
With much to excite, there 's little to exalt; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; 
A sort of varnish over every fault; 

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 

They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; 

But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
And they must be or seem what they were : still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; 

But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 

It palls — at least it did so upon me, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

86 



682 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xvin. 

When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming 
Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something more : 

With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; 
Seen beauties brought to market by the score; 

Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; 
There 's litte left but to be bored or bore. 

Witness those « ci-devant jeunes hommesn who stem 

The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 

XIX. 

T is said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde exactly as they ought to paint. 

Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing; 

And that their books have but one style in common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now; for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential : 

T Ve seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when young, for that 's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 

Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, 

The real portrait of the highest tribe? 

T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 

XXI. 

« Haud ignara loquor: » these are nugai, « quarurn 

Pars parva/ui,» but still art and part. 
Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, 

A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 
Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em, 

For reasons which I chuse to keep apart. 
« Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarity 
Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of Freemasons; 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons; 

And there is much which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
The world (as, since that history, less polite 

Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held), 
Has not yet given up the practice quite. 

Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd, 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 

Gondemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins, 

Have shaving too entailed upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague which, in the aggregate, 

May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can penetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition? 

Man 's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 

But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 



XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows! 
So many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction between friends and foes ! 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 

That but ask any woman if she 'd chuse 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen? 

XXVI. 

« Petticoat influence » is a great reproach, 

Which even those who obey would fain be thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; 

But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought 

By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mystical sublimity, 

No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored, 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ancle ? 

XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day 

With a sirocco, for example, blowing, — 

When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient grey, 
The. sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, 

To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. 

XXX. 

And in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 

XXXI. 

Juan — in this respect at least like saints — 
Was all things unto people of all sorts, 

And lived contentedly, without complaints, 
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women, 

Without the coxcombry of certain she-men. 



DON JUAN. 



683 



XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; 

'T is also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger ; 
Cut Juan had been early taught to range, 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider ou his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause, 

He ciear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 
And never craned, 1 and made but few «faux pas,» 

And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 

Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 
And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 
But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 
Marvell'd at merit of another nation : 

The boors cried « Dang it ! who 'd have thought it?»- 
Sires, 
The Nestors of the sporting generation, 

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 
And rated him almost a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 
Such were his trophies ; — not of spear and shield, 

But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; 
Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 
And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
Ask'd, next day, « if men ever hunted twice ?» 

XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase, 
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
A quality agreeable to woman, 

When her soft liquid words run on apace, 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner. 

XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
And shone in tlic best part of dialogue, 

By humouring always what they might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue: 

Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue! 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer; 

In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced; — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of pantomime, — he danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable : 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 



XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
And rather held in than put forth his vigour : 

And then he had an ear for music's sound, 
Which might defy a crotchet-critic's rigour. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced like a personified bolero ; 

XL. 

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 

Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
The « tout ensemble » of his movements wore a 

Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 
And ne'er to be described ; for, to the dolour 
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 

XLI. 
No marvel then he was a favourite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired, 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved « tracasserie,-* 
Began to treat him with some small « agacerie.v 

XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 

Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 

I 'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated : 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation; 
But such small licenses must lovers brook, 

Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 

'T will but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd ; 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd; 

Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard; 

Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound ; 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, 

Who, one might think, was something in the affair, 

True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took 
But small couceru about the when, or where, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 



684 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLVI. 

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the duchess' conduct free; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And, waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLVII. 
There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy : 

'T is so becoming to the soul and face; 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
Without a friend, what were humanity, 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace? 
Consoling us with — « Would you had thought twice! 
Ah ! if you had but follow'd my advice !» 

XLVIII. 

Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough, 

Especially when we are ill at ease; 
They 're but bad pilots when the weather 's rough, 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, 

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 
When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 2 

XLIX. 

But this is not my maxim : had it been, 

Some heart-aches had been spared me; yet I care not — 
I would not be a tortoise in his screen 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. 
T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 

That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 

Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, 

Is that portentous phrase, « I told you so,» 
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst « bonos mores,* 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 
The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 
Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 

Unless her habits should begin to mend; 
But Juan also shared in her austerity, 

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 
His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, 
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LTI. 

These forty days' advantage of'her years — 

And hers were those which can face calculation, 

Boldly referring to the list of peers, 

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
For a young gentleman's fit education, 

Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, 

In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. 



LIII. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty 

Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue 

Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 

Oh, time ! why dost not pause ! Thy scythe, so dirty 
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 

Reset it, shave more smoothly, also slower, 

If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 

'T was rather her experience made her sage, 
For she had seen the world, and stood its test, 

As I have said in — I forget what page; 

My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 

By this time; — but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 

And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 

At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, 

She put all coronets into commotion : 
At seventeen too the world was still enchanted 

With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 

A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
She had consented to create again 
That Adam, call'd «the happiest of men.» 

LVL 
Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
winters, 

Admired, adored; but also so correct, 
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 

Without the apparel of being circumspect; 
They could not even glean the slightest splinters 

From off the marble, which had no defect. 
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 
Fondly the wheeling fire-Hies flew around her, 

Those little ylitterers of the London night; 
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — 

She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; 

But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; 
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify? 

LVIII. 
I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, 

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 

Especially with politics on hand; 
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 

Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; 
I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's « contents 

LIX. 

T is sad to hack into the roots of things, 

They are so much intertwisted with the earth : 

So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs 

Would make indeed some melancholy mirth : 

But this is not at present my concern, 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 3 



DON JUAN. 



685 



LX. 
With the kind view of saving an eclat, 

Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 

That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
(For foreigners don't know that a. faux pas 

In England ranks quite on a different list 
From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, 
Whose verdict for such sin a perfect cure is) — 

LXI. 

The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best impede 
The further progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake, 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LXII. 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
His grace was an enduring, married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 

Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded first 
The magic of her grace's talisman, 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, 

And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere; 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year; 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go: 

LXIV. 
The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 

Or make a Werter of him in the end. 
No wonder then a purer soul should dread 

This sort of chaste liaison for a friend; 
It were much better to be wed or dead, 

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
If that a « bonne fortune » be really « bonne.» 

LXV. 

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, 

Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 

She call'd her husband now and then apart, 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, « he never interfered 
In any body's business but the king's:" 

Next, « that he never judged from what appear'd, 
Without strong reasou, of those sorts of things :» 

Thirdly, that «Juan had more brain than beard, 
And was not to be held in leading-strings ;» 

And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 

« That good but rarely came from good advice." 



LXVII. 

And, therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves forsooth, 
At least as far as bienseance allows: 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 

That opposition only more attaches 

But here a messenger brought in dispatches : 

lxviii. 

And being of the council call'd « the privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; 
And if their full contents I do not give ye, 

It is because I do not know them yet, 
But I shall add them in a brief appendix, 
To come between my epic and its index. 

LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle common-place or two, 

Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 

And pass, for want of better, though not new: 

Then, broke his packet, to see what was in 't, 
And having casually glanced it through, 

Betired; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 

Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honourable man, 

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing: 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 

On birth-days, glorious with a star and string; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXL 

But there was something wanting on the whole — 
I dont know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women — the sweet souls! — call soul. 
Certes it was not body; he was well 

Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 

A handsome man, that human miracle; 

And in each circumstance of love or war 

Had still preserv'd his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I 've said — 

That undetinable «je ne sais quoi.n 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaus, — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes: 

Neither can show quite how they would be loved. 

The sensual for a short time but connects us — 
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur, 

Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. 



686 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXIV. 

A something all-sufficient for the heart 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking; 

But how to fill up that same vacant part — 

There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart, 

They run before the wind through high seas breaking ; 

And when they have made the shore through every shock, 

Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd «love in idleness," 

For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming garden, — 

I will not make his great description less, 

And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden; 

But though the flower is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, « voila la pervenclie ! » 

LXXVI. 

Eureka! I have found it! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness, 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 

LXXVI I. 

« Beatus Me procul» from « negotiis,» 

Saith Horace ■ the great little poet 's wrong; 

His other maxim, « Noscitur a sociis,» 

Is much more to the purpose of his song; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company he kept too long; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who liave an occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 

As far as I know, that the church receives: 
And since that time it need not cost much showing, 

That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
And still more women, spring from not employing 
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXX1X. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Bards may sing what they please about content; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 

Would some believe that such a tale had been: 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
Especially when they would look like lies; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 



LXXXI. 

« An oyster may be cross'd in love,» — and why? 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
And a propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; 
Those vegetables of the catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 

Thou hast struck one immense colossus down, 
Thou moral Washington of Africa! 

But there 's another little thing, I own, 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, 

And set the other half of earth to rights: 

You have freed the blacks— now pray shut up the whites. 

LXXXIII. 

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander; 

Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that « sauce for goose is sauce for gander, » 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small) ; 
Shut up — no, not the king, but the pavilion, 
Or else 't will cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 
Shut up the world at large; let Bedlam out, 

And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
All things pursue exactly the same route, 

As now with those of soi-disa nt sound mind. 
This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 

Were there a jot of sense among mankind; 
But till that point dappui is found, alas! 
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 

Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; 
But when the latter works its own undoing, 
It's inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 
She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
Their union was a model to behold, 
Serene and noble,— conjugal but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years, 

Though much in temper; but they never clash'd : 

They moved like stars united in their spheres, 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 



DON JUAN. 



68' 



LXXXYIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thiug, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the hest, 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women, 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed: — 

And 't will perplex the casuists in morality, 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

XG. 
Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity: 
Must the event decide between the two? 

I leave it to your people of sagacity 
To draw the line between the false and true, 

If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: 
My business is with Lady Adeline, 
Who in her way too was a heroine. 

XCI. 
She knew not her own heart; then how should I? 

I think not she was the?i in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one: 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who liave studied friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 
To thus much Adeline would not advance; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 

She was as capable as woman can be. 

XGIII. 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 

Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
An innocent predominance annex, 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 

And your true feelings fully understood, 
No friend like to a woman earth discovers, 
So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change; and how should this be otherwise? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through nature's whole analogies: 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm? 

Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 
Methinks love's very title says enough: 
How should « the tender passion* e'er be tough? 



XGV. 
Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 

(I merely quo.e what I have heard from many) 
Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zany. 
I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives, 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 

I 've also seen some female friends ('t is odd, 
But true — as, 'f expedient, I could prove) 

That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad, 
At home, far more than ever yet was love — 

Who did not quit me when oppression trod 
Upon me; whom no scandal could remove; 

Who fought, and fight, in absence too., my battles. 

Despite the snake society's loud rattles. 

XCVII. 
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 

Grew friends in this or any other sense, 
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: 

At present I am glad of a pretence 
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 

And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; 
The surest way for ladies and for books 
To bait their tender or their tenter-hooks. 

XCVIII. 
Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 

To read Don Quixote in the original, 
A pleasure before which all others vanish; 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd « small, » 
Or serious, are the topics which I must banish 

To the next canto; where, perhaps, I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 
Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter: 
They '11 only make mistakes about the fair, 

And Juan too, especially the latter. 
And I shall take a much more serious air 

Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, t will be their ruin. 

C. 

But great things spring from little: — would you think, 
That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 

As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion 

As few would ever dream could form the link 
Of such a sentimental situation? 

You '11 never guess, I '11 bet you millions, milliards — 

It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 

CI. 
T is strange — but true; for truth is always strange, 

Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 
How much would novels gain by the exchange! 

How differently the world would men behold! 
How oft would vice and virtue places change! 

The new world would be nothing to the old, 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 



688 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


CII. 


VI. 


What « antres vast and deserts idle» then 


The Lady Adeline, right honourable, 


Would be discovered in the human soul! 


And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so ■ 


What ice-bergs in the hearts of mighty men, 


For few of the soft sex are very stable 


With self-love in the centre as their pole! 


In their resolves— alas! that I should say so! 
They differ as wine differs from its label, 


What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 


Of those who hold the kingdoms in control! 


When once decanted; — I presume to guess so, 


Were things but only call'd by their right name, 


But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, 


Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 


Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 
But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 






The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet 




Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 




Or glorious as a diamond richly set; 


CANTO XV. 


A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 




And for which nature might forego her debt — 




Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 




The luck of finding every body solvent. 


i. 


VIII. 


Ah! what should follow slips from my reflection: 


Oh, Death! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 


Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 


Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, 


As a propos of hope or retrospection, 


Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely 


As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 


Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 


All present life is but an interjection, 


But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 


An «Oh!» or «Ah!» of joy or misery, 


Advances with exasperated rap, 


Or a « Ha! ha!» or « Bah!» — a yawn, or «Pooh!« 


And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 


Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

11. 

But, more or less, the whole *s a syncope, 


On ready money or « a draft on Ransom. » 


IX. 
Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty ! 


Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 


She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 


The grand antithesis to great ennui, 


What though she now and then may slip from duty, 


Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 


The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 


That watery outline of eternity, 


Gaunt gourmand ! with whole nations for your booty, 


Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 


You should be civil in a modest way: 


Which ministers unto the soul's delight, 


Suppress then some slight feminine diseases, 


In seeing matters which are out of sight. 


And take as mauy heroes as heaven pleases. 

X. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 


iii. 

But all are better than the sigh supprest, 


Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 


Where she was interested (as was said), 


Making the countenance a mask of rest, 


Because she was not apt, like some of us, 


And turning human nature to an art. 


To like too readily, or too high bred 


Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 


To show it — points we need not now discuss — 


Dissimulation always sets apart 


Would give up artlessly both heart and head 


A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 


Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 


Is that which passes with least contradiction. 


For objects worthy of the sentiment. 


IV. 


XL 


Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not 


Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour, 


Remember, without telling, passion's errors? 


That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, 


The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 


She had heard ; but women hear with more good humour 


Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 


Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 


What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 


Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more 


He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors; 


Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; 


The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 


Because he had, like Alcibiades, 


Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 


The art of living in all climes with ease. 


V. 


XII. 


And as for love— Oh, Love ! We will proceed. 


His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 


The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 


Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce; 


A pretty name as one would wish to read, 


Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 


Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 


Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 


There 's music in the sighing of a reed; 


Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 


There 's music in the gushing of a rill; 


To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 


There 's music in all things, if men had ears: 


And seem to say, « resist us if you can» — 


Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

1 


Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 



DON JOAN. 



68 9 



XHT. 
They are wrong — that's not the way to set about it; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it; 

In fact, his manuer was his own alone: 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 
By nature soft, his whole address held off 

Suspicion: (hough not timid, his regard 
Was such as rallier sccm'd lo keep aloof, 

To shield himself, than put you on your guard: 
Perhaps, 't was hardly quite assured enough, 

But modesty's at times its own reward, 
Like virtue ; and the ahseuce of pretension 
Will go much farther than there's need to mention. 

XV. 

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd, 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation; 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs; — without a siruggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 

XVI. 

That is, with men: with women he was what 

They pleased to make or take him for; and their 

Imagination 's quite enough for that: 
So that the outline's tolerably fair, 

They fill the canvas up — and, « verbum sat,» 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

XVII. 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to add a colouring from her own. 

'T is thus the good will amiably err. 

And eke the wise, as has been of .an shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher, 

But saddest when his science is well known : 

And persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools, 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? 

Great Socrates? And thou, divintr still, ' 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 

How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an lmmb'er promontory, 

Amidst life's infinite variety: 
With no j real care for what is nicknamed glory, 

Bin speculating as 1 cast mine eye 
On whit may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify, 
I rattle on exactly as I d talk 
With any body in a ride or walk. 



XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 

Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; 
Cut there's a conversational facility, 

Which may round off an hour upon a time. 
Of this I 'm sure at least, there's no servility 

In mine irregularity of chime, 
Which rings what's uppermost of new or hoary, 
Just as I feel the «improvvisatore.» 

XXI. 
« Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 

Et bene, die neutmm, die aliquando male.n 
The first is rather more than mortal can do; 

The second may be sadly done or gaily; 
The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 

The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily; 
The whole together is what I could wish 
To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pride my feeble: — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short, 
But now 1 can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more; — but I was born for opposition. 

XXIII. 

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side : 

So that I verily believe if thev 
Who now are basking in their full blown pride, 

Were shaken dow n, and « dogs had had their day,» 
Though at the first I might by chance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition: 

I think I should have made monastic vows, 
But for my own peculiar superstition : 

"Gainst rhyme ! never should have knock'd my brows, 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it. 

XXV. 

But «laissez aller» — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the limes may furnish. 'T is a flight 

Which seems at first to need no Jofty wing, 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite^ 

The difficulty lies: in colouring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 

With nature manners which are artificial, 

And renderiug general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 

Jlen made the manners; manners now make men — 
Pinn'd like a Hock, and fleeced too in their fokL 

At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 
Now this at all events must render cold 

Your writers, who must either draw again 
Days better drawn before, or else assume 
The present, with their common-place costume. 



6 9 o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVII. 

We '11 do our best to make the best on't:— March ! 

March, my Muse ! If you canuot fly, yet flutter; 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely shall find something worth research: 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 

While yet America was in her non-age. 

XXVIII. 
When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence, 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 

For which small thanks are still the market price, 
Even where the article at highest rate is. 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
And morally decided, the best state is 

For morals, marriage; and, this question carried, 

She seriously advised him to get married. 

XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 

He had a predilection for that tie ; 
But that at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 

Or that of her to whom he might apply ; 
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself, 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
There 's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general: 't is no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 

A line, and leave posterity undone, 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals: and besides, 

They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 



XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select, 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty; 

For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
For t' other one who promises much duty; 

For this a lady no one can reject, 

Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty; 

A second for her excellent connexions; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the harmonist embargo'd marriage 2 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 

Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 

Without those sad expenses which disparage 
What Nature, naturally most encourages) — 

Why call'd he « IIarmony» a state sans wedlock? 

Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly, 

Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection 's to his title, not his ritual, 

Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favour, malgre Mai thus, generation — 

Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
Of all the modest part of propagation, 

Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, 
That half its produce tends to emigration, 

That sad result of passions and potatoes — 

Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus? 1 can't tell; 

I wish she.had ; his book's the eleventh commandment, 
Which says, « thou shah not marryn — unless well: 

This he (as far as I can understand) meant; 
'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell, 

Nor canvass what «so eminent a hand» meant; 3 
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 
That Juan had enough of maintenance, 

Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd — 
As on the whole it is an even chance 

Tiiat bridegrooms, after they are fairly groomd, 
May retrograde a little in the dance 

Of marriage — (which might form a painter's fame, 

Like Holbein's « Dance of Death» — but 't is the same) ; — 

XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 

In her own mind, and that's enough for woman. 

But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Beading, 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Know- 
man, 

And the two fair co-hei<-esses Giltbcdding. 

Shedeem'd his merits something more than common : 

All these were unobjectionable matches, 

And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 



DON JUAN. 



69 1 



XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, 

That usual paragon, an only daughter 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 
water, 
With a slight shade of Blue too it might be. 

Beneath the surface: but what did it matter? 
Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XL1I. 
And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 

A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star of biuestring; 

But whether English dukes grew rare of late, 
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, 

By which such sirens can attract our great, 
She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as t other. 

XLIII. 
And then there was — but why should I go on, 

Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 

Of the best class, and heller ihau her class, 
Aurora Baby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
A rose with ail its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

XLIV. 
Piich, noble, but an orphan; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and kind; 
But still her aspect had an air so lonely! 

Blood is not water; and where shall we find 
Feelings of vouth like those which overthrown lie 

By death, when we are left, alas! behind, 
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? 

XLV. 

Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, sbe had something of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs shine. 
All youth — but with an aspect beyond time; 

Piadiant and grave — as pitying man's decline; 
Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door. 

And grieved for those who could return no more. 

XL VI. 
She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 

As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear, 

Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 
Of deeds and days when they had til I'd the ear 

Of nations, and had never bent or bow d 
To novel power; and as she was the last, 
She held their old faith and old feeiings fast. 

XL VII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 

As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 
As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 

And kept her heart serene within its zone. 
There was awe in the homage which sue drew; 

Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 
Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 
In its own strength — most strange in one so young. 



XLVIII. 
Xow it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted : 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited: 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being meution'd as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd half smiling and half serious; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust, 

And with an air, to say the least, imperious^ 

She marvell'd «what he saw in such a baby 
I As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?»- 

L. 

! Juanrejoin'd — She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
And the Pope thunder excommunication. 

If » But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 

LT. 
And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, 

If good, is none the worse for repetition: 
If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on 

And amplifv; you lose much by concision : 
Whereas insisting in or out of season 

Convinces ail men, even a politician, 
Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 
So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route ? 

LIE 
Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 

For prejudice it was — against a creature 
As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 

With all the added charm of form and feature, 
For me appears a question far too nice, 

Since Adeline was liberal by nature; 
But nature's nature, and has more caprices 
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LHI. 
Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, 
Which charm most peple in their earlier day : 

For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 
And womankind too, if we so may say, 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 
Like « Anthony's by Caesar," by the few 
Who look upou them as ihev ought to do, 

L1V. 
it was not envy — Adeline had none; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind., 
ft was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousv, I think: but shun 

Following the «igues fatuio of mankind. 

It was not but 't is easier far, alas! 

To say what it was not, than what it was. 



6 a 2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LV. 

Litile Aurora deem'd she was the theme 

Of sucli discussion. She was there a guest, 
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 
Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 

Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 
She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 
The dashing and proud air of Adeline 

Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 

Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 
Juan was something she could not divine, 

Being no sibyl in the new world's ways; 
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 

Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 

Half virtues and whole vices beiug combined; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind: — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LVI1I. 

Juan knew nought of such a character — 

High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 

The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 

Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 
Nor would be thus; — the difference in them 
Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 
Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 

Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 
And, as my friend Scott says, « I sound my Warison;» 

Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, 

Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share 
it, if 
There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 
I say, in my slight way I may proceed 

To play upon the surface of humanity. 
I write the world, nor care if the world read, 

At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
My muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 

More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 
Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it, 
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 
The conference or congress (for it ended 

As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady; 
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 

The silvery bell rung, not for « diuuer ready,» 
But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, 
Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. 



LXII. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks 

For weapons; but what muse since Homer's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout. 

Than witches, b — dies, or physicians brew. 

LXIH. 

There was a goodly « soupe a la bonne femme,-» 

Though God knows whenceit came from; there was too I 

A furbot for relief of those who cram, 
Pielieved with dindon a la Perigueux ; 

There also was the sinner that I am! 

How shall I get this gourmand stanza through? 

Soupe a la Ceimveau, whose relief was Dory, 

Believed itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

Out I must"crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, 

My muse would run much more into excess. 

Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. 

But, though a « bonne vivante,» I must confess 
Her stomach's not her peccant part : this tale 

However doth require some slight refection, 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXV. 

Fowls a la Concle, slices eke of salmon, 

With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of venison; 
Wines too which might again have slain young Am mon, 

A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon; 
They also set a glazed Wesfphalian ham on, 

Whereon Apicius would bestow his beoison ; 
And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LX VI. 
Then there was God knows what « a l'Allcmaude,» 

« A l'Lspaguole,» « timbal!e,» and « SaIpicou» — 
With things I can't withstand or understand, 

Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole; 
And « entremets* to piddle with at hand. 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; 
While great Lucullus' robe triomphale muffles 
(There's fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles.* 

LXYII. 
What are the fillets on the victor's brow 

To these? Thev are rags or dust. Where is the arch 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? 

Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march? 
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Further I shall not follow the research: 
But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
Vvhen will your names lend lustre even to partridges? 

LXYIII. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
Follow'd by upetits puits d'amour,* — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries, 

Which encyclopaedise both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans « confitures, » it no less true is, 

There's pretty picking in those « petits puits. » 5 



DON JUAN. 



6 9 3 



LXIX. 
The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 

Of intellect expended on two courses; 
And indigestion's grand multiplication 

Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 

That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, 
As form a science and a nomenclature 
From out the commonest demands of nature? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; 

The diners of celehrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than \ can tell; 
Also the younger men too; for a springald 

Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel, 
Rut thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 
LXXf. 

Alas ' I must leave undescribed the gibier, 

The salmi, the consomme, the puree, 
All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber 

Than could roast beef in our rough John Cull way : 
I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

« Bubble and squeak» would spoil my liquid lay; 
Hut I have dined, and must forego, alas! 
The chaste description even of a « becasse,» 

LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the gout, — 

Taste or the gout, — pronounce it as inclines 

Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it — 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

Lxxru. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine, 

Must I pass over in my bill cf fare? 
I must, although a favourite « plat» of mine 

In Spain, and Lucea, Athens, every where : 
On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my table-cloth, in open air, 
On Sunium or Mymettus, like 1 iogeues, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXX IV. 

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 

And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
The guests were placed according to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display'd : 
Don Juan sate next an «a l'Espagnole» — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 
But so far like a hdy, that 't was drest 
Superbly, aud contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance too he was placed betw r een 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
A situation difficult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine; 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him. 



LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears : 
This much is sure, that, out of ear-shot, things 

Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears. 

Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs; 

Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 
Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 

'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues which pass'd without a word! 

LXXViL 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought : 
Of all offences that \s the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And after so much excellent advice. 

Lxxviir. 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 

Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies. 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, «I said it,» — 
A kind of triumph I '11 not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as F 've seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end; 

For all men prophesy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't Jet them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 

That he would rather make them more than less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering, she begau to question : this 
With her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions weut not much amiss, 
Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 

In motion; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be, 
Which show'd such deference to what females say, 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact too temper'd him from grave to gay, 

And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawiug people out, 
Without their seeing what he was about. 



%4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXX1II. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flutterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud, — 
Commenced (from such slight things will great com- 
mence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment, 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIV. 
And then he had good looks; — that point was carried 

Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve 
To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married — 

A case which to the juries we may leave, 
Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 

Now though we know of old that looks deceive, 
And always have done, somehow these good looks 
Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage, 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a printed page. 

But virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age; 

And Socrates, that model of all duty, 

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 

LXXXVl. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates : 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In viryins — always in a modest way, 
Observe ; for that with me 's a « sine qua.» 6 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
(See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps I have a third too in a nook, 

Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest; 

But if a writer should be quite consistent, 

How could he possibly show things existent? 

LXXXVHT. 
If people contradict themselves, can I 

Help contradicting them, and every body, 
Even my veracious self? — but that's a lie; 

I never did so, never will — how should I? 
He who doubts all things, nothing can deny; 

Truth's fountains may be clear — herstreamsare muddy, 
And cut through such canals of contradiction, 
That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be render'd also true 

By those who sow them in a land that 's arable. 
'T is wonderful what fable will not do! 

T is said it makes reality more bearable : 
But what 's reality? Who has its clue? 

Philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 

Religion ? Yes ; but which of all her sects I 



XC. 

Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear; 

Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
God help us! Since we 've need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'T is time that some new prophet should appear 

Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

XCI. 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics ! None can hate 

So much as I do any kind of wrangle; 
And yet such is my folly, or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, and future state; 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But though I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician, 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 

As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
In politics, my fluty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecia, 
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 

XCI1I. 

But politics, and policy, and piety, 

Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
Not only for the sake of their variety, 

But a subservient to a moral use; 
Because my business is to dress society, 

And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

XCIV. 
And now I will give up all argument : 

And positively henceforth no temptation 
Shall « fool me to the top up of my bent;» 

Yes, I 'II begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed I never knew what people meant 

By deetniug that my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous,— I think she is as harmless 
As some who labour more and yet may charm less, 

xcv. 

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? 

No; but you 've heard— 1 understand— be dumb! 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious :— 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious? You laugh :— you may; that will I not; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot, 

Exists— and where? That shall I not recal, 
Because I 'd rather it should be forgot. 

« Shadows the soul of Richard* may appal : 
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very 
Like those of the philosopher of Malmesbury.7 



DON JUAN. 



6 9 5 



XCVII. 
The night (I sing by night sometimes an o\v], 

And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 

Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 

I •wish to heaven they would not look so grim; 
The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 
I think too that 1 have sate up too late : 

xcvnr. 

And therefore, though 't is by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think, — I say 

1 feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudently postpone, until mid-day, 
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings 

Shadows; — but you must be in my condition 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XC1X. 
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'T wixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge : 
How little do we know that which we are ! 

How less what we may be! The eternal surge 
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 

Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the grave 
Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



CANTO XVI. 



T. 

The antique Persians taught three useful things, — 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 

This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings — 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now than ever. 

II. 

The cause of this effect, or this defect, — 

« For this effect defective comes by cause, » — 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect; 
But this I must say in my own applause, 

Of all the Muses that I recollect, 

Whatc'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From any thing, this Epic will coutain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 

T is true there be some bitters with the sweets, 
Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain. 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

« De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.» 



IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What theu? I only know it so befel. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast, 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 

'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because t is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with «quia impossibile.n 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe : — if 't is improbable you must; 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

T is always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not sppak profanely to recal 

Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 

VII. 

I merely mean to say what Johnson said, 

That in the course of some six thousand years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
Is that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

viir. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done, 

The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 

The banqueters had dropp'd off one by one — 
The soug was silent, and the dance expired: 

The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone, 
Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 

And nothing brighter gleam' d through the saloon 

Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt; 
Or like a soda-bottle when its spray 

Has sparkled and let haif its spirit out; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind; 

X. 

Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest, 
Or none; or like — like nothing that I know 

Except itself; — such is the human breast; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 1 

So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal! 



6 9 G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 
Undressing is a woe ; our robe de chambre 

Way sit like that of Nessus, and recal 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 

Titus exclaim'd, « 5 've lost a day !>> Of all 

The nights and days most people can remember 

(F have had of both, some not to be disdaiu'd), 

I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XU. 
And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

Felt restless and perplexed, and compromised; 
He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 

Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; 
If he had known exactly his own plight, 

He probably would have philosophised 5 
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 
He sigh'd; — the next resource is the full moon, 

Where all sighs are deposited; and now, 
It happen 'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 

As clear as such a climate will allow; 
And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — « Oh, thou!» 
Of amatory egotism the tuism, 
Which further to explain would be a truism. 

XIV. 

But lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 

Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold 

Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err); 
Deep secrets to her roiling light are told; 

The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, 

And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow; 

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's bidow, 

With all the mystery by midnight caused; 

Below his window waved (of course) a willow; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade. 

That flash' d and after darken'd in the shade. 

XVI. 
Upon his table or his toilet — which 

Of these is not exactily ascertained — 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd.) 
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 

Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, 
In chisel' d stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw 
His chamber-door wide open — and went forth 

Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 

Long, furuish'd with old pictures of great worth, 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 



xvin. 

The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
Look living in the moon; and as you lurn 

Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps— voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, 

As if to ask how can you dare to keep 

A vigil there, where ail but death should sleep ! 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
The charms of other day*, in starlight gleams 

Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous- 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people, as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd 

In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 

His garments only a slight murmur made; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 

But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by, 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't 

Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this? or was it a vapour? 

XX II I. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place ; 

And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; 

He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 

The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away — but where? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 

Might come or go; but Juau could uotstate 

Through which the spectre seem d to evaporate. 



DON JUAN. 



6 97 



XXV. 

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd; 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies, 

And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, 
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, 

Walking already, and return'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

XXVI. 

All there was as he left it; still his taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 

Beceiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office ; he took up an old newspaper ; 
The paper was right easy to peruse; 

He read an article the king attacking, 

And a long eulogy of « Patent Blacking.» 

XXVII. 

This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook — 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch' d all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he 'd seen his phantasy he fed, 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, 

Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, 
And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 

At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed; 

In the mean time his valet, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress'd ; and, like young people, he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon 't; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put: 

His curls fell negligently o'er his front, 

His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut, 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 

Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 

Which made him have recourse unto his spoon ; 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something was the matter — Adeline 

The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'd and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd dowu and mutter'd 

Something, but what's not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter'd; 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 

Aurora Baby, with her large dark eyes, 

Survey' d him with a kind of calm surprise. 



XXXII. 

Cut seeing him all cold and silent still, 

And every body wondering more or less, 
Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill? 

He started, and said, « Yes — no — rather — yes.» 
The family physician had great skill, 

And, being present, now began to express 
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 
The cause, but Juan said, « he was quite well.» 

XXXIII. 
« Quite well; yes, no.»— These answers were mysterious, 

And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 
However they might savour of delirious; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious. 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, 

Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd; 

Then ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of late? 
Her grace replied, his grace was rather pain'd 

With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 

Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state: 

« You iook,» quoth he, « as if you 'd had your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late. » 

« What friar ?» said Juan; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 

« Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar? 

The spirit of these walls?» — « In truth not I.» 
« Why fame — but fame you know 's sometimes a liar — 

Tells an odd story, of which by the by : 
Whether whh time the spectre has grown shyer, 

Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 
The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

« The last time was » « T pray, » said Adeline — 

(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend), — « if you but design 

To jest, you '11 chuse some other theme just now, 

Because the present tale has oft been told, 

And is not much improved by growing o!d.» 

XXXVIII. 

« Jest!» quoth Milor, « Why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon — 

Saw » « Well, no matter, 't was so long ago ; 

But come, I '11 set your story to a tune.» 

Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow, 

She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon 

As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 

The air of « 'T was a Friar of Orders Grey. » 



G 9 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXIX. 

« But add the words," cried Henry, « which you made, 

For Adeline is half a poetess,» 
Turning; round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not hut express 
In courtesy theif wish to see display'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,, 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 

Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation, 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 

Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Wade Norman Church his prey, 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away< 

Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 

To turn church lands to lay, 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, 

Though he is not seen by day. 

3. 
And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say; 
But still to the house of Amundeville, 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 

He flits on the bridal eve; 
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 

4- 
When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befal 
That ancient line, in the pale moon-shine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his f.tce, 

T is shadow'd by his cowl; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 

5. 
But beware! beware of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day, 

But the monk is lord by night; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 

And he '11 say nought to you: 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul : 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLT. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound 

And the pause follow'd, which, when song expires, 
Pervades a moment those who listen round; 

And then of course the circle much admires, 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XL1I. 

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 

As if she rated such accomplishment 
As the mere pastime of an idle day, 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 
Would now and then as 't were without display, 

Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
To such performances with haughty smile, 
To show she could, if it were worth her while. 

XLI1I. 

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

For a spoil'd carpet — but the « Attic Bee» 

Was much consoled by his own repartee. 2 

XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 

(By doing easily whene'er she chose, 
What dilettanti do with vast parade), 

Their sort of half profession: for it grows 
To something like this when too oft display'd, 

And that it is so every body knows 
Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T other, 
Show off — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 

Oh! the long evenings of duets and trios! 

The admirations and the speculations; 
The « Mamma Mias!» and the « Amor Mios!» 

The « Tanti Palpitis» on such occasions: 
The « Lasciamis, » and quavering « Addios!» 

Amongst our own most musical of nations; 
With « Tu mi chamases» from Portingale, 
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 3 

XLVI. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Grey Highlands, 

That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 
O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 

The calentures of music which o'ercome 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, 

No more to be beheld but in such visions, — 

Was Adeline well versed as compositions. 



DON JUAN. 



6 99 



XLVII. 

She also bad a twilight tinge of « Blite,» 

Could write rhymes,and compose more than she wrote; 
Made epigrams occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
But still from that sublimer azure hue, 

So much the present dye, she was remote; 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 
And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 

Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
By whose degrees all characters are class'd— 

Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err, 
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 

Had more of her existence, for in her 
There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
Thoughts boundless, deep, but silent too as space. 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 

Also thereon, — but that 's not much; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven, 

For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 

L. 

I have not heard she was at all poetic, 

Though once she was seen reading the « Bath Guide, » 
And « Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pathetic, 

Because, she said, her temper had been tried 
So much, the bard had really been prophetic 

Of what she had gone through with, — since a bride. 
But of all verse what most insured her praise 
Were sonnets to herself, or « bouts rimes. » 

LI. 

'T were difficult to say what was the object 

Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
To bear on what appear' tl to her the subject 

Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
Perhaps she merely had the simple project 

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; 
Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 
Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 

LH. 

But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 

A thing quite necessary to the elect, 

Who wish to take the tone of their society: 

In which you cannot be too circumspect, 
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 

But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 

On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 

His spirits, and without more explanation, 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her grace too also seized the same occasion, 

With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

About the present family's deaths and wooings. 



L1V. 

Of these few could say more lhan has been said; 

They pass'd as such things do, for superstition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 

Iiut Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, 
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 

The company prepared to separate: 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none; 

Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
There was a goodly match, too, to be run 

Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate, 
And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to sec. 

LVI. 

There was a picture-dealer who had brought 

A special Titian, warranted original, 
So precious that it was not to be bought, 

Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 

The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 
With motives the most classical and pure, 

So that he would have been the very donor, 
Bather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 

So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 
Had brought the capo d opera, not for sale, 
But for his judgment, — never known to fail. 

LVII I. 
There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 
Brought to survey these grey walls, which, though so 
thick, 

Might have from time acquired some slight defect; 
Who, after rummaging the abbey through thick 

And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
New buildings of correctest conformation, 
And throw down old, which he call'd restoration. 

LIX. 
The cost would be a trifle — an « old song,» 

Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burthen 
Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 

The price would speedily repay its worth in 
An edifice no less sublime than strong, 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in 
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
For Gothic daring shown in English money.4 

LX. 

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, 

And one on tithes which sure are Discord's torches, 

Kindling Beligion till she throws down her gage, 

« Untying » squires « to fight against the churches;" 5 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman. 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 



700 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 

And scarlet cloak (1 hate the sight to see, since — 

Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I've paid few parish fees since) 

That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

Lxn. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out, 
Therefore the present piece of natural history 

I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt, 
And merely state, though not for the consistory, 

Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 
Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 
Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 

Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 
And morals of the country from caprices 

Of those who 've not a license for the same,- 
And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 

Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 
Preserving partridges and pretty wenches, 
Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale, 
Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale, 

T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 

Poor soul! for she was country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXV. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye 
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, 

Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner, 

Parading all her sensibility, 

Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVI. 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, 
Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 

The lawyers in the study ; and in air 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent 

From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
Both busy (as a general in his tent 

Writing dispatches) in their several stations, 

Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXVII. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the « small ») 
A mighty mug of moral double ale: 

She waited until Justice could recal 

Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 



LXVUI. 

You see here was enough of occupation 

For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses, 

There was much bustle too and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses, 

Because, as suits their rank and situation, 

Those who in counties have great land resources, 

Have « public days,» when all men may carouse, 

Though not exactly what 's call'd « open house. » 

LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, uninvited 
(Thus we translate a general invitation), 

All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation; 

And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 

Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit, 

But county contests cost him rather dearer, 

Because the neighbouring Scotch earl of Giftgabbit 

Had English influence in the self-same sphere here; 
His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit, 

Was member for « the other interest » (meaning 

The self-same interest, with a different leaning). 

LXXI. 

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty, 

And promises to all — which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But, what with keeping some and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

lxxil 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held 

That he exactly the just medium hit 

'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd), 

To hold some sinecures he wished abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 

LXXIII. 

He was «free to confess" — (whence comes this phrase? 

Is 't English ? No— t is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factious path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
As for his place he could but say this of it, 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife 

Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition; 

When, demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
Cut through and through (oh ! damnable incision !) 

The Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 

Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 



DON JUAN. 



70 



LXXV. 

Sooner « come place into the civil list, 

And champion him to the utmost» — he would keep it, 
Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd: 

Profit he cared not for, let others reap it; 
But should the day come when place ceased to exist, 

The country would have far more cause to weep it; 
For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 
He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXVI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 

Than those who were not paid for independence, 

As common soldiers, or a common shore 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 

Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the moh all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVII. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 

And thought. I say no more — I 've said too much ; 
For all of us have either heard or read 

Of — or upon the hustings — some slight such 
Hints from the independent heart or head 

Of the official candidate. I '11 touch 
No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 
And grace is said; the grace I should have sung — 

LXXVIII. 

But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And every body out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 

My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 
The very servants puzzling how to hand 

Their plates — without it might be too much bending 
From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 

Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. 
For any deviation from the graces 
Might cost both men and masters too — their places. 

LXXX. 
There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 

Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to 
lurch ; 
Some deadly shots too, Septembrisers, seen 

Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 
Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 

There were some massy members of the church, 
Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, 
And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXXI. 
There were some country wags too, — and alas ! 

Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 

And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhelming son of Heaven, 
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 



LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 
A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate; 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(Oh, Providence! how wondrous are thy ways, 

Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ?) 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 

LXXXIII. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes; 

But both were thrown away amongst the fens; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax: 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, « between 
A beggar and a queen, » or was (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we 've seen — 
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) — 

A difference « twixt a bishop and a dean,» 

A difference between crockery-ware and plate, 

As between English beef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both 

LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who 've few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But « eu avant !» The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles : 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair; 
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray, 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXV1II. 

On which, at the third asking of the banns, 
He started ; and, perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once, 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, 

And with such hurry that, ere he could curb it, 

He 'd paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. 



'02 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIX. 
This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 

The supplicator being an amateur; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third, 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 

XG. 

They little knew, or might have sympathized, 
That he the night before had seen a ghost • 

A prologue which but slightly harmonised 
With the substantial company engross'd 

By matter, and so much materialised, 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCI. 

But what confused him more than smile or stare 
From all the' squires and 'squiresses around, 

Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 
Especially as he had been renown'd 

For some vivacity among the fair, 

Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 

(For little things upon my lord's estate 

Were good small-talk for others still less great) — 

xcn. 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 

And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss: 

In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive; and in this 

Smile of Aurora's ihere was nought to pique 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles, 

XCIII. 

'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Which was not very wise and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 

XCIV. 
But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 

Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary; 
Her aspect was, as usual, still — not stern — 

And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
Yet grew a little pale — with what? concern? 

I know not ; but her colour ne'er was high — 
Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear, 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, and similar connexions' 
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 



XGVI. 

Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

On Adeline while playing her grand role, 

Which she went through as though it were a dance 

(Betraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce perceptibly askance 

Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; 

XCV1I. 

So well she acted all and every part 

By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 

Which many people take for want of heart. 
They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility, 6 

A thing of temperament and not of art, 

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; 

And false — though true ; for surely they 're sincerest, 

Who re strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 

Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never; 
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 

Little that's great, but much of what is clever; 
Most orators, but very few financiers, 

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour, 
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 
And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

XCIX. 
The poets of arithmetic are they 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they would do in a modest way, 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take and what they pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease; 

Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces, 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 

The ridicules of people in all places — 
That honey of your fashionable bees — 

And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; 

And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtseying off, as curtsies country dame, 
Retired: with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Delighted with the dinner and their host, 
But with the lady Adeline the most. 

CH. 
Some praised her beauty; others her great grace; 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face, 

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. 
Yes, she was truly worthy her high place ! 

No one could euvy her deserved prosperity : 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity ! 7 



DON JUAN, 



708 



GUI. 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which tnrn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, 

And families, even to the last relation; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses, 

CIV. 
True, she said little — 't was the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram: 
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's « faint praises so wont to damn, 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melo-drame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend! 
I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 

CV. 

There were but two exceptions to this keen 
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed: one, 

Aurora, with her pure and placid mien; 
And Juan too, in general behind none 

In gay remark on what he 'd heard or seen, 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 

In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 

He would not join them in a single sally. 

CVI. 

'T is true he saw Aurora look as though 

She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook 

Its motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Further; it might or it might not be so, 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his reverie, 

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good, 

In making him as silent as a ghost, 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost 
Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that I must deem them real : — 

CV1II. 

The love of higher things and better days; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own, 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

C1X. 

Who would not sigh At at Tav Kuflv^stav 
That hatha, memory, or that had a heart? 

Alas ! her star must wane like that of Dian, 
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 

Anacreon only had the soul to tie on 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 

Of Eros; but, though thou hast play'd us many tricks, 

Still we respect thee, « Alma Yenus Genitrix!» 



CX. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 

Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
Waved o'er his coucli ; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before: he was undrest, 

Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 

Completely « sans culotte,» and without vest; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less; 

But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
He sate, with feelings awkward to express 

(By those who have not had such visitations), 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vain he listen'd — Hush! what 's that? 

I see — I see — Ah, no ! 't is not — yet't is — 
Ye powers! it is the — the — the — Pooh! the cat! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 

Or tiptoe of an amatory miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CX1II. 
Again what is 't ? The wind? No, no, — this time 

It is the sable friar as before, 
With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again, through shadows of the night sublime, 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle. 

CXIV. 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, 8 

Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, 

Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, 
Sounding like very supernatural water, — 

Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
For immaterialism's a serious matter: 

So that even those whose faith is the most great 

In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 

CXV. 

Were his eyes open? — Yes! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb, 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next? — the door. 

CXVI. 

It open'd with a most infernal creak, 

Like that of hell. « Lasciate ogni speranza, 

Voi che entrate!» The hinge seem'd to speak, 
Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza; 

Or — but all words upon such themes are weak : 
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 

Hero — for what is substance to a spirit? 

Or how is t matter trembles to come near it? 



7°4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cxvn. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then swung back; nor close — but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

CXVIII. 
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 

The night before; but, being sick of shaking, 
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, 

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; 
His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 
Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 
Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce; 

And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated; 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

Follow'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 

At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
He reach' d the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 

cxx. 

Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers! 

It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 

Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall : 
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.9 

exxr. 

But still the shade remain'd ; the blue eyes glared, 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared — 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. 
A stiaggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair' d ; 

A red lip, with two rows of pearl beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud. 

CXXII. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder! 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 

He found, as people on most trials must, 
That he had made at first a silly blunder, 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall instead of what he sought. 

GXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul, 

As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood; 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 

And they reveal'd (alas ! that e'er they should !) 
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, 
The phantom of her frolic grace — Fitz-Fulke! 



NOTES. 



CANTO I. 

Note 1. Stanza v. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 
« Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona,» etc. — Hoeace. 

Note 2. Stanza xvii. 
Save thine « incomparable oil," Macassar! 
« Description des vertus incomparables de l'huile dc 
Macassar.» — See the advertisement. 

Note 3. Stanza xlii. 
Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 

See Longinus, Section io, vast, /xyj Kv xi Tispl ouxr,v 

Note 4. Stanza xliv. 
They only add them all in an appendix. 
Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
the end. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxxviii. 
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 
Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming; (I think) the 
opening of Canto II., but quote from memory. 

Note 6. Stanza cxlviii. 

Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 

Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? 

Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'lleiily 

did not take Algiers — but Algiers very nearly took him ; 

he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 

not much credit, from before that city, in the year 1 7 — 

Note 7. Stanza cexvi. 
My days of love are over, me no more. 

« Me nee foemina, nee puer 
Jam, nee spes animi credula mutui ; 

Nee certare juvat mero, 
Nee vincirenovis tempora floribus.* 



CANTO III. 



Note 1. Stanza xlv. 
For none likes more to hear himself converse. 

RisposeallorMargutte : adirtel tosto, 

Io non credo piu al nero, ch' a l'azzurro; 

Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto; 

E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro, 

Ne la cervogia, e quand r io n' ho nel mosto ; 

E molto piu ne 1' aspro che il mangurro ; 

Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede ; 

E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede. 
Pulci, Morgante Maggiore, Canto 18. Stanza n5. 

Note 2. Stanza Ixxi. 
That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 
worn in the manner described. The reader will per- 
ceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was of 
Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. 



DON JUAN. 



7 o5 



Note 3. Stanza lxxii. 
A like geld bar, above ber instep roll'd. 
The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sove- 
reign rank in tbe women of the families of the Dcys, 
and is worn as such by their female relatives. 

Note 4- Stanza Ixxiii. 
Her person if allow'd at large to run. 
This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
hair in this profusion; of these, three were English, the 
other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that leugth 
and quantity that, when let down, it almost entirely 
shaded t^e person, so as nearly to render dress a su- 
perfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; the Ori- 
ental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. 

Note 5. Stanza cvii. 

Oh Hesperus ! tbou bringest all good things. 

E5--pe, - avra fzpzi<;\ 

Qepsig oivov, fspsis «'"/<*, 

Qzpzi; /j.xTzpL —y.idx. 

Fragment of Sappho. 

Note 6. Stanza cviii. 
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart. 
Era gia 1' ora che volge 1 disio, 

A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore; 
Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolei amici addio, 

E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore 
Punge, se ode Squilladi lontano, 

Che paja 1 giorno pianger che si muore. 

Daste's Purrjatonj, Canto viii. 

This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by him 
without acknowledgment. 

Note 7. Stanza cix. 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb. 

See Suetonius for this fact. 



company for some foreign theatre; embarked them at 
an Italian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold 
them all. One of the women, returned from her cap- 
tivity, I heard sing, by a strange coincidence, in Rossini's 
opera of « L'ltaliana in Algieri,» at A 7 enice, in the be- 
ginning of 1817. 

Note 4- Stanza lxxxvi. 
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the thirdsex. 

It is strange that it should be the pope and the sultan 
who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade — 
women being prohibited as singers at St Peter's, and not 
deemed trust-worthy as guardians of the haram. 

Note 5. Stanza ciii. 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 
The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is 
about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of 
the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, 
who gained the battle, was killed in it; there fell on 
both sides twenty thousand men. The present state of 
the pillar and its site is described in the text. 



CANTO IV 



Note 1. Stanza xii. 
u Whom the gods love die young, » was said of yore. 
See Herodotus. 

Note 2. Stanza lix. 

A vein had burst. 

This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of 
conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
Foscari, on his deposition, in i457> hearing the bell 
of St Mark announce the election of his successor, 
« mourut subitement d'une hemorrhagie causee par uue 
veine qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine,» (see Sismondi and 
Daru, vols. i. and ii), at the age of eighty years, when 
« who would have thought the old man had so much 
blood in him?» Before I was sixteen years of age, I 
was witness to a melancholy instance of the same effect 
of mixed passions upon a young person; who, however, 
did not die in consequence, at that time, but fell a victim 
some years afterwards to a seizure of the same kind, 
arising from causes intimately connected with agitation 
of mind. 

Note 3. Stanza lxxx. 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
This is a fact. A few years ago a man engaged a 



CANTO V. 



Note 1. Stanza hi. 
The ocean stream. 
Tnrs expression of Homer has been much criticised. 
It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, 
but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the 
Bosphorus, with the ^Egean intersected with islands. 

Note 2. Stanza v. 
u The Giant's Grave.* 
« The Giant's Graven is a height on the Adriatic shore 
of the Fiosphorus, much frequented by holiday parties; 
like Harrow and Highgate. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
And running out as fast as I was able. 
The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 

of December, 1S20, in the streets of R , not a 

hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The 
circumstances were as described. 

Note 4- Stanza xxxiv. 
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, sawn 
half off : it had just been discharged, and was still warm. 

Note 5. Stanza liii. 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
In Turkey nothing is more common than for the 
Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as 1 
six of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined the j 
better for it; I tried the experiment, but was like the ! 
Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called kit- 
tiewiaks were admirable whets, ate six of them, and J 
complained that « he was no hungrier than when he j 
began. » 

Note 6. Stanza lv. 

Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, 
A marble fountain echoes. 

A common furniture. — I recollect being received by | 



J 



>o6 



BY RON'S VVOUKS. 



Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and 
fountain, etc., etc., etc. 

Note 7. Stanza lxxxvii. 
The gate so splendid was in all its features. 
Features of a gate — a ministerial metaphor ; « the 
feature upon which this question hinges. » — See the 
« Fudge Family,» or hear Castlereagh. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 
There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
than the hand : it is almost the only sign of blood which 
aristocracy can generate. 

Note 9. Stanza cxlvii. 
Save Solyruan, the glory of their line. 

It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
his essay on « Empire,)) hints that Solyman -was the last 
of his line; on what authority, I know not. These are 
his words: «The destruction of 3Iustapha was so fatal 
to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks from 
Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, and 
of strange blood ; for that Solymus the Second was 
thought to be supposititious.)) But Bacon, in his his- 
torical authorities, is often inaccurate. I could give half 
a dozen instances from his apophthegms only. 

Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, 
after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch 
on one or two as trifling in the edition of the British 
Poets, by the justly-celebrated Campbell. — But I do this 
in good will, and trust it will be so taken. — If any thing 
could add to my opinion of the talents and true feeling 
of that gentleman, it would be his classical, honest, and 
triumphant defence of Pope, against the vulgar cant of 
the day, and its existing Grub-street. 

The inadvertencies to which I allude are, — 

Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of 
having taken « his leading characters from Smollett.* 
Austey's Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smollett's 
Humphry Clinker (the only work of Smollett's from 
which Tabitha, etc., etc. could have been taken) was 
written during Smollett's last residence at Leghoru, in 
1770. — «Argal,» if there has been any borrowing, 
j Anstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor. I 
refer Mr Campbell to his own data in his lives of Smol- 
lett and Anstey. 

Secondly, Mr Campbell says, in the life of Cowper 
(note to page 358, vol. 7), that « he knows not to whom 
Cowper alludes in these lines : 

Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born, 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn. 

The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Fer- 
ney, with its inscription, »< Deo erexit Voltaire.» 

Thirdly, 'in the life of Burns, Mr C. quotes Shak- 
speare thus, — ■ 

To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
Or add fresh perfums to the violet. 

This version by no means improves the original, which 
is as follows : 

To gild refined gold, to paiDt the lily, 
To throw a perfume on the violet, etc. 
King John. 

A great poet quoting another should be correct; he 
should also be accurate when he accuses a Parnassian 



brother of that dangerous charge « borrowing:)) a poet 
had better borrow any thing (excepting money) than 
the thoughts of another — they are always sure to be re- 
claimed; but it is very hard, having been the lender, to 
be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of Anstey 
versus Smollett. 

As there is « honour amongst thieves,)) let there be 
some amongst poets, and give each his due,— none can 
afford to give it more than Mr Campbell himself, who, 
with a high reputation for originality, and a fame which 
cannot be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except 
Rogers) who can be reproached ( and in him it is indeed 
a reproach) with having written too little. 



CANTO VI. 



Stanza lxxv. 
A « wood obscure, n like that where Dante found, 

Nel mezzo del Cammin' di nostra vita 
Mi ritrovai per una Selva oscura, etc. etc. etc. 



CANTO VII. 



Stanza li. 
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 

Fact: Souvaroff did this in person. 



CANTO VIII. 

Note i . Stanza viii. 
All sounds it pierceth, u Allah ! Allah ! Hu ! n 
« Allah! Hu!» is properly the war-cry of the Mussul- 
mans, and they d»well long on the last sylla'ble, which 
gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 

Note 2. Stanza ix. 
a Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daughter, » 

But thy most dreaded instrument 
In working out a pure intent, 
Is man array'd for mutual slaughter ; 
Yea, Carnage is thy daughter I 

Wobbswoath's Thanksgiving Ode. 

To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a pedi- 
gree for murder as ever was found out by Garter King- 
at-arms. — What would have been said had any free- 
spoken people discovered such a lineage? 

Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 
A fact; see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect remark- 
ing at the time to a friend: — « There \sfame ! a man is 
killed, his name is Grose, and they print it Grove. » I 
was at college with the deceased, who was a very amiable 
and clever man, and his society in great request for his 
wit, gaiety, and « chansons a boire.» 

Note 4- Stanza xxiii. 

As any other notion, and not national. 

See Major Yallency and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 



DON JUAN. 



707 



Note 5. Stanza xxv. 
'T is pity 11 that such meanings should pave hell.n 
The Portuguese proverb says, that « Hell is paved with 
good intentions. » 

Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 

Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
friar. 

Note 7. Stanza xlvii. 
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 
They were but two feet high above the level. 

Note 8. Stanza xcvii. 
That you and I will win St Georges collar. 
The Russian military order. 

Note 9. Stanza cxxxiii. 

(Powers 
Eternal! such names minrjlcd!) u Ismail 's ours !» 

In the original Russian — 

Slava bogu! slava vam! 
Krepost Vzala, y ia tam. 

A kind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 



CANTO IX. 



Note 1 . Stanza i. 
Humanity would rise, and thunder « Nay!» 
Query, Neyl — Pointer's Devil. 

Note 2. Stanza vi. 
And send the sentinel before your gale 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 

«I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with four 
others. — We were sent to break biscuit, and make a 
mess for Lord Wellington's hounds. I was very hungry, 
and thought it a good job at the time, as we got our own 
fill while we broke the biscuit, — a thing I had not got 
for some days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal Son 
was never once out of my mind ; and I sighed, as I fed 
the dogs, over my humble situation and my ruined 
hopes. » — Journal of a Soldier of the jist Regt. during 
the war in Spain. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
been exasperated, by his extreme costivity, to a degree 
of insanity. 

Note 4- Stanza xlvii. 
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
He was the « grande passion» of the grande Cathe- 
rine. — See her Lives, uudcr the head of « Lanskoi. » 

Note 5. Stanza xlix. 

Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
His parts of speech. 

This was written long before the suicide of that 
person. 



Note 6. Stanza Ixiii. 
Your u fortune» was in a fair way u to swell 
A man.n as Giles says. 
«His fortune swells him, it is rank, he's married. »— 
Sir Giles Overreach; Massinger. — See A New Way to 
Pay Old Debts. 



CANTO X. 



Note 1. Stanza xiii. 
Would scarcely join again the « reformadoes." 
« Reformers," or rather « Pieformed.» The Baron 
Bradwardine, in Waverley, is authority for the word. 

Note 2. Stanza xv. 
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 

Query, Suit! — Printer's Devil. 

Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
Balgounie's Brig's I/lack wall. 
The brig of Don, near the « auld toun» of Aberdeen, 
with its onearch and its black deep salmon stream below, 
is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, though 
perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb Which made 
me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish 
delight, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. 
The saying, as recollected by me, was this — but I have 
never heard or seen it since I was nine years of age ; — 

Brig of Balgounie, black 's your tua' ; 
Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's aefcal, 
Boun ye shall fa' ! 

Note 4- Stanza xxxiv. 

Oh, for a forty-parson power to chaunt 
Thy praise, Hypocrisy ! 

A metaphor taken from the « forty-horse power» of 
a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend S. S., sit- 
ting by a brother-clergyman at dinner, observed after- 
wards that his dull neighbour had a « twelve-parson 
powers of conversation. 

Note 5. Stanza xxxvi. 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners. 
« Hyde.w— I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate j 
word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 

Note 6. Stanza xlix. 
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. 
The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by 
the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 

Note 7. Stanza lviii. 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of « Biron.» 
In the empress Anne's time, Biron her favourite as- 
sumed the name and arms of the « Byrons» of France, 
which families are yet extant with that of England. 
There are still the daughters of Courland of that name ; 
one of them I remember seeing in England in the blessed 
year of the Allies— the Duchess of S.— to whom the 
English Duchess of S 1 presented me as a name- 
sake. 



708 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 8. Stanza Ixii. 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 
St Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still 
extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. 

Note 9. Stanza lxxxi. 
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. 
India. America. 



CANTO XI. 



Note 1 . Stanza xix. 
Who ou a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing). 
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing ? 

The advance of science and of language has rendered 
it unnecessary to translate the above good and true 
English, spoken in its original purity by the select 
mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza 
of a song which was very popular, at least in my early 
days : — 

On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, 

In spite of each gallows old scout; 
If you at the spelken can't hustle, 
You'll be hobbled in making a Clout. 

Then your blowing will wax gallows haughty, 
When she hears of your scaly mistake, 

She'll surely turn snitch for the forty, 
That her Jack may be regular weight. 

If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal 
pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of 
pugilism ; who, I trust, still retains the strength and 
symmetry of his model of a form, together with his 
good humour, and athletic as well as mental accom- 
plishments. 

Note 2. Stanza xxix. 
St James's Palace and St James's « Hells.* 
«Hells,» gaming-houses. What their number may 
now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age 
1 knew them pretty accurately, both « gold» and 
«silver.» I was once nearly called out by an acquaint- 
ance, because when he asked me where I thought that 
his soul would be found hereafter, I answered, «In 
Silver Hell.» 

Note 3. Stanza xliii. 

And therefore even I wont anent 
This subject quote. 
« Anent» was a Scotch phrase, meaning ((concerning, » 
— «with regard to.» It has been made English by the 
Scotch Novels ; and , as the Frenchman said — « If it be 
j not, ought to be English. » 

Note 4- Stauza xlix. 
The milliners who furnish u drapery misses." 
. «Drapery misses»— This term is probably any thing 
now but a mystery. It was however almost so to me 
when I first returned from the East in 1S1 1 — 1812. It 
means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable young fe- 
male, well instructed by her friends, and furnislied by 
her milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
when married, by the husband. The riddle was first 
read to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my 



praising the « drapery» of an « untocheredn but ((pretty 
virginities» (like Mrs Anne Page) of the then day, which 
has now been some years yesterday : — she assured me 
that the thing was common in London; and as her own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of 
array, put any suspicion in her own case out of the 
question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. 
If necessary, authorities might be cited, in which case I 
could quote both « drapery» and the wearers. Let us 
hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 

Note 5. Stanza lx. 
'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 

((Diviuae particulam aurae.» 



CANTO XII. 



Note 1. Stanza xix. 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 
See Mitford's Greece. « Graecia Verax.» His great 
pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
spelling oddly, and writing quaintly ; and, what is strange 
after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern his- 
torians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but 
fair to state his virtues-^learning, labour, research, 
wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a 
'tvriter, because they make him write in earnest. 

Note 2. Stanza xxxvii. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure. 
This line may puzzle the commentators more than the 
present generation. 

Note 3. Stanza lxxiii. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows. 

The Russians, as is -well known, run out from their 
hot baths to plunge into the Neva : a pleasant practical 
antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 

Note 4- Stanza lxxxii. 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights. 
For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 
polar region and native country of the aurora borealis, 
see Parry's Voyage in search of a North-West Pas- 
sage. 

Note 5. Stanza lxxxvi. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 
A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue 
of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a 
river in his pocket, with various other similar devices. 
Hut Alexander's gone, and Athos remains, I trust, ere 
long, to look over a nation of freemen. 



CANTO XIII. 

Note 1. Stanza vii. 

Right honestly, « he liked an honest hater. » 
: Sir, I like a good hater. »— See the Life ofDr John- 



DON JUAN. 



7°9 



Note 2. Stanza xxvi. 
Also there bin another pious reason. 

With every tbiug that pretty bin. 
My lady sweet arise.— Shasspeare. 

Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
They and their bills, a Arcadians both,* are left. 
k Arcades arnbo.» 

Note 4- Stanza lxxi. 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's. 
Salvator Rosa. 

Note 5. Stanza lxxii. 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Dani 
If I err not, « Your Dane» is one of Iago': 
of Nations « exquisite in their drinking. » 



Catalogue 



Note 6. Stanza lxxviii. 
Even JVimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura. 
In Assyria. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
« That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 
« Mrs Adams answered Mr Adams, that it -was blas- 
phemous to talk of Scripture out of church. » This 
dogma was broached to her husband — the best Chris- 
tian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latter 
chapters. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 

The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 

It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst 
tlie novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports 
and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break 
their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art 
of angling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest 
of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties 
of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of 
fish; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the 
streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all 
the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a 
rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery 
have somewhat of noble and perilous in them ; even net- 
fishing, trawling, etc., are more humane and useful — but 
angling ! — No angler can be a good man. 

« One of the best men I ever knew — as humane , de- 
licate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any 
in the world— was an angler : true, he angled with 
painted flies, and would have been incapable of the 
extravagances of I. Walton. » 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
over the MS. — « Audi alteram partem" — I leave it to 
counterbalance my own observation. 



CANTO XIV. 



Note 1 . Stanza xxxiii. 
And never craned, and made but few ufaux pas." 
Craning. — « To crane* is, or was, an expression used 
to denote a gentleman's stretching out his neck over a 



hedge, « to look before he leaped :» — a pause in his 
« vaulting ambition,» which in the field doth occasion 
some delay and execration in those who may be imme- 
diately behind the equestrian sceptic. « Sir, if you don't 
chuse to take the leap, let me» — was a phrase which 
generally sent the aspirant on again ; and to good pur- 
pose : for though «the horse and rider» might fall, they 
made a gap, through which, and over him and his steed, 
the field might follow. 

Note 2. Stanza xlviii. 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 

In Swift's or Horace Walpole's Letters I think it is 
mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a friend, 
was answered by a universal Pylades : « When I lose 
one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and take 
another." 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. 
Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to 
the club of which he was a member, he was observed to 
look melancholy. «What is the matter, SirWilliam?» 
cried Hare, of facetious memory. « Ah !» replied SirW. 
« I have just lost poor Lady D.» « Lost-' What at — 
Quinze or Hazard ?» was the consolatory rejoinder of 
the querist. 

Note 3. Stanza lix. 
And I refer you to wise Osenstiern. 
The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on 
the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects 
arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of 
politics : « You see by this, my son, with how little wis- 
dom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 



CANTO XV. 



Note 1. Stanza xviii. 

And thou, diviner still, 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 
As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
I say, that I mean, by « diviner still," Christ. If ever 
God was Man — or Man God — he was both. I never ar- 
raigned his creed, but the use — or abuse— made of it. 
Mr Canuing one day quoted Christianity to sanction 
Negro Slavery, and Mr Wilberforce had little to say in 
reply. And was Christ crucified, that black men might 
be scourged? If so, he had better been born a Mulatto, 
to give both colours an equal chance of freedom; or at 
least salvation. 

Note 2. Stanza xxxv. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 

In his harmonious settlement. 
This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
« Shakers" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as pre- 
vent more than a certain quantum of births within a 
certain number of years; which births (as Mr Hulme 
observes) generally arrive « in a little flock like those of 
a farmer's lambs, all within the same month perhaps." 
These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, 
pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writers 
on America. 



10 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 3. Stanza xxxviii. 
>'or canvass what u so eminent a hand* meant. 
Jacob Tonson, according to Mr Pope, was accustomed 
j to call his -writers «able pens» — « persons of honour,» 
and especially « eminent hands. » Yide Correspond- 
ence, etc., etc. 

Note 4- Stanza Ixvi. 
While great Lucallus' robe triomphale muffles — 
(There' s fame) —young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles. 
A dish « a laLucullus.» This hero, who conquered 
the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the 
transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into 
Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good dishes ; 
— and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has 
not done more service to mankind by his cookery than 
by his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a 
bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to earn cele- 
brity from both. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixviii. 

But even sans u confitures," it no less true is, 
There 's pretty picking in those « petits puits.n 
«Petitspuits d'amour garnis de confitures," a classical 
and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second 
course. 

Note 6. Stanza lxxxvi. 

For that with me's a usine qua.* 
Subauditur « Non,» omitted for the sake of euphony. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
In short upon that subject I've some qualms very 
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury. 
Hobbes ; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
compliment to the souls of other people as to decline 
their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 



CANTO XVI. 



Note 1. Stanza x. 
If from a shell-fish or from co:hineal. 
The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
from a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from kermes, 
in still an article of dispute ; and even its colour — some 
say purple, others scarlet : I say nothing. 

Note 2. Stanza xliii. 

For a spoil'd carpet— hut the « Attic Bee» 
Was much consoled by his own repartee. 

I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, 
with — «Tbus I trample on the pride of Plato !» — «With 
greater pride, » as the other replied. But as carpets 
are meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably 
misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a 
table-cloth, orsome other expensive and uncynical piece 
of furniture. 

Note 3. Stanza xlv. 

With u Tu mi chamases» from Portingale, 
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 

I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 



somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign 
parts, did rather indecorously break through the ap- 
plauses of an intelligent audience — intelligent, I mean, 
as to music, — for the words, besides being in recondite 
languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all 
the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian) — 
were sorely disguised by the performers; — this mayoress, 
I say, broke out with, « Rot your Italianos ! for my 
part, 1 loves a simple ballat!» Rossini will go a good 
way to bring most people to the same opinion, some 
day. Who would imagine that he was to be the suc- 
cessor of Mozart? However, I state this with diffidence, 
as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, 
and of much of Rossini's : but we may say, as the con- 
noisseur did of painting, in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
« that the picture would be better painted if the painter 
had taken more pains. » 

Note 4- Stanza lix. 
For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
« Ausu Romano, sere Yeneto» is the inscription (and 
well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls between 
the Adriatic and Yenice. The walls were a republican 
work of the Yenetians; the inscription, I believe, im- 
perial, and inscribed by Napoleon. 

Note 5. Stanza lx. 

« Untying" squires u to fight against the churchss." 

Though ye untie the winds and bid them fight 
Against the churches. — Macbeth. 

Note 6. Stanza xcvii. 

They err — 't is merely what is call'd mobility. 

In French «mobilite.» I am not sure that mobility 
is English ; but it is expressive of a quality which rather 
belongs to other climates, though it is sometimes seen 
to a great extent in our own. It may be defined as an 
excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions — at 
the same time without losing the past; and is, though 
sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most 
painful and unhappy attribute. 

Note 7. Stanza cii, 

Draperied her form with curious felicity. 

«Guriosa felicitas.vi — Petronius Arbiter. 
Note 8. Stanza cxiv. 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 

See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
Charles of Saxony raised by Schroepfer — «Karl — Karl 
— was — wait wolt mich ?» 

Note 9. Stanza cxx. 

IIow odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity 

Should cause more fear thau a whole host's identity ! 



to-night 

Ilave struck more terror to the soul of Rkbard 
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers, etc. etc. 
See Richard III. 



ADDENDA. 



fttrimttra, 



OR APPENDIX TO THE « MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



[The poems ond fragments which fall under this head have been drawn, partly from Mr Moore's « Letters and Journals of 
Lord Byron," partly from other authentic sources. To make our edition as complete as possible, additional notes have 
been affixed, where explanations might be thought desirable. — Ed.] 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE 
«AD PISONES, DE AKTE POETICA,» AND INTENDED AS A 
SEQUEL TO « ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.)) 



Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi. 

Iloa. De Arte Poet. 3o4, 3o5. 

i Rhymes are difficult things — they 'are stubborn things, sir. a 

Fielding's Amelia, Vol. IN, Book v, Chap. 5. 



Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12th, 1811. 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
Uis costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature with a blush 
Saw Cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush? 
Or should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ; 
Or low Dubost 1 (as once the world has seen), 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen — 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares without head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know, 
May shoot a little with a lengtlien'd bow ; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask : 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams- 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labour'd long exordium sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown. 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 
The groves of Granta and her Gothic halls, 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 

walls ; 
Or in advent'rous numbers neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, — or the river Thames.2 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine; 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign : 

1 In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherevei 
there are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's cari 
tature of Mr H , and the consequent action, etc. The circum- 
stance is probably too well known to require further comment. 

2 u Where pure description held the plac3 of sense."— Pote. 



You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot; 
Then glide down Grub-street, fasting and forgot, 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome — till true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure : 
I labour to be brief — become obscure : 
One falls while following elegance too fast ; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast; 
Too low a third crawls on — afraid to fly, 
He spins his subject to satiety ; 
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice : 
None are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art — 
For coat and waistcoat Slowshears is your man, 
But breeches claim another artisan :i 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
Or, with a fair complexion to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but a bottle nose ! 

Dear authors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subject and its length ; 
Nor lift your load before you 're quite aware 
What weight your shoulders will or will not bear. 
Cut lucid Order and Wit's siren voice 
Await the poet skilful in his choice; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line : 
This shall the author chuse, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not, if 't is needful, to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use : 
As Pitt ? has furnish'd us a word or two, 
Which lexicographers declined to do; 

1 Mere common mortals were commonly content with one tailor and 
with one bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible 
to confide their lower garments to the makers of their body-clothes. 
I speak of the beginning of iSog; what reform may have since taken 
place I neither know nor desire to know. 

2 Mr Pitt was liberal in hisadditions to our parliamentary tongue* 
as may be seen in many publications, particularly the Edinburgh 
Review. 

9° 



7 I2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



So you indeed with care (but be content 

To take this license rarely) may invent. 

New words find credit in these latter days, 

If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase; 

What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 

To Dryden's, or to Pope's maturer muse. 

If you can add a little, say, why not, 

As well as William Pitt and Walter Scott? 

Since they, by force off rhyme and force of lungs, 

Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues; 

'T is then — and shall be — lawful to present 

Reform in writing, as in Parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions, which in season please ; 
And we and ours, alas! are due to fate, 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though, as a monarch nods, and commerce calls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
Though swamps subdued and marshes drain'd sustain 
The heavy ploughshare, and the yellow grain ; 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar; 
All, all must perish — but, surviving last, 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ; l 
Though those shall sink which now appear to thrive; 
As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which Gods and angels wage, 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint ; 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St Patrick's dean. 2 

Blank verse is now with one consent allied 
To tragedy, and rarely quits her side : 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays; 
While modest comedy her verse foregoes, 
For jest and pun' in very middling prose : 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
Or lose one point because they wrote in verse, 
But so Thalia pleases to appear — 
Poor Virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year. 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight : — 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 

1 Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present 
in as much request as old wine or new speeches : in fact, this is the 
millenium of black-letter, thanks to our Hebers, Webers and Scotts! 

2 MacFlecknoe, theDunciad, and all Swift's lampooning ballads. 
Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal 
feelings and angry retort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability 
of these satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from 
the personal, character of the writers. 

3 With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of puns, 
they have Aristotle on their side, who permits them to orators, and 
gives them consequence by a grave disquisition. 



Nor unregarded will the act pass by 

Where angry Towuly lifts his voice on high. 

Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 

When common prose will serve for common things; 

And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, 

To « hollowing Hotspur »* and the sceptred sire. 

'T is not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
To polish poems ; they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung, 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with any thing but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import, 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or court ; 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a « Lying Valet, » or a « Lear,» 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering « Peregrine," or plain « John Bull ;» 
All persons please when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law: 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil ! 
But if a new design you dare essay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'T is hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale. 
And yet perchance 't is wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than chuse a new, and err. 
Yet copy not too closely, but record 
Mors justly thought for thought, than word for word ; 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

1 u And in his ear I '11 hollow, Mortimer!" — i Henri; IV. 



ADDENDA. 



7*3 



For you, young bard, whom luckless fate may lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read, 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
Beware — for God's sake don't begin like Bowles I 1 
« Awake a louder and a loftier strain » — 
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper' d warblings of his master lyre : 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
« Of man's first disobedience and the fruit » 
He speaks ; but as his subject swells along, 
Earth, heaven, and hades echo with the song. 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
As if we witness'd all already done ; 
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject or adorn the scene, 
Gives as each page improves upon the sight, 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness light; 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 

If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear : 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
Aud sketch the striking traits of every age ; 
While varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told. 
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays ; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him Freshman ! — forced no more to groan 
O'er Virgil's devilish verses, 2 and his own; 

1 About two years ago, a young man, named Townsenl, was an- 
nounced by Mr Cumberland (in a review since deceased) as being 
engaged in an epic poem, to be entitled u Armageddon. » The plan 
and specimen promise much ; but I hope neither to offend Mr T. nor 
bis friends, by recommending to his attention the lines of Horace to 
which these rhymes allude. If Mr T. succeeds in his undertaking, 
as there is reason to hope, how much will the world be indebted to 
Mr Cumberland for bringing him before the public ! But till that 
eventful day arrives, it may be doubtedwhetlier the premature dis- 
play of his plan (sublime as ibe ideas confessedly are) has not, by 
raising expectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, — by de- 
veloping his argument, rather incurred the hazard of injuring 
Mr T.'s future prospects. Mr Cumberland (whose talents I shall not 
depreciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr T. must not 
suppose me actuated by unworthy motives in^this suggestion. I wish 
the author all the success he can wish himself; and shall be truly 
happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies 
sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cowley (Mrs or Abraham), Ogilvy, 
Wilkie, Pye, and all the « dull of past and present days. » Even- if 
he is not a Mil/071, he may be better than a Blackmore ,• if not a 
Homer, an Antimachus. I should deem myself presumptuous, as a 
young man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to one still 
younger. MrT. has the greatest difficulties to encounter; but in 
conquering them he will find employment — in having conquered 
them, his reward. I know too well « the scribbler's scoff, the cri- 
tic's contumely," and I am afraid time will teach Mr T. to know 
them better. Those who succeed, and those who do not, must 
bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have most of it. — 
I trust that Mr Townsend's share will be from envy; — he will 
soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to 
malice. 

The above note was written before the author was apprised of Mr 
Curubei land's death. 

2 Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, used to 
fling away Virgil in his ecstacy of admiration, and say, u the book 



Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He flies from T— v—l's frown to « Fordham's Mews;» 
(Unlucky T— v— 1, doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils and by bears!) « 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions, threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain : 
Rough with his elders— with his equals rash- 
Civil to sharpers — prodigal of cash ; 
Constant lo nought — save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both— for both have made him sore, 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — x becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away, 
And, unexpell'd, perhaps retires M.A. ; 
Master of Arts !— as Hells and Clubs 2 proclaim, 
Where scarce a black-leg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money — chuses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the senate ; gets a son and heir — 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there : 
Mute though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer— 
His son 's so sharp— he '11 see the dog a peer ! 

Manhood declines, age palsies every limb — 
He quits the scene, or else the scene quits him : 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves- — 
Counts cent, per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die : 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time save times like these ; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept, is buried — let him rot ! 

But from the drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd, 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 't is surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show ■ 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 

had a devil. 11 Now such a character as I am copying would probably 
fling it away also, but rather wish that the devil had the book ; not 
from dislike to the poet, but a well-founded horror of hexameters. 
Indeed the public school penance of « Long and Short » is enough to 
beget an antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's life, and per- 
haps so far may be an advantage. 

1 u Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.n I dare say Mr 
T — v — 1 (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me ; and it 
is no matter whether any one else does or no. — To the above events, 
u quseque ipse niiserrinia vidi, et quorum pars magna fui,n all limes 
and terms bear testimony. 

2 a Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little and are 
cheated a good deal : « Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you lose 
more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all. 



7'4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To gaze -when sable Hubert threats to'sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours, or nature bear 1 
A halter' tl lieroine' Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd (he play. 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes, 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, wouldlqqake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy and grief, 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do, 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing « heroines bluc?»z 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can, 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I 'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
Where good and evil-persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread ; 
In all, 'iniquity is grown so nice, 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
His anguish doubling by his own « encore !» 
Squeezed in « Fop's Alley,» jostled by the beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes, 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
Why this and more he suffers, can ye guess? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk 3 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes. 
Improving years, with'things no longer known, 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'T is strange Benvolio suffers such a show ;4 

1 " Irene^had to speak 'two lines with the bowstring round her 
neck ; but the audience cried out ' Murder!' and she was obliged 
lo be'earried off the stage. n — Boswell's Life of Johnson. 

2 In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre i Mr Lewis tells us, 
that though blacks were unknown in England at the period of his 
action, yet he has mride the anachronism to set off the scene: and 
if he could have produced the effect u by making his heroine blue » 
— I quote him — u blue he would have made her !» 

3 a The first theatrical representations, entitled 'Mysteries and 
Moralities,' were generally enacted at Christmas, by monks (as the 
only persons who could read), and latterly by the clergy and stu- 
dents of the universities. The dramatis personam were usually, 
Adam, Pater Ccelestis, Faith, Vice,n etc. etc. — Vide Wurton's His- 
tory of English Poetry. 

4 Benvolio does not bet ; but every man who maintains race- 
horses is a promoter of all the concomitant evils of the turf. — 
Avoiding to bet is a little pharidaical. Is it an exculpation? I 
think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for chastity because 
she herself did not commit fornication. 



Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging,— all, save rout and race. 

Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time ; 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best, 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers : 
« Alas, poor Yorick!» now for ever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When « Chrononhotonthologos must die,» 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope lo sit, 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend, for thee I '11 quit my Cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto, « Vive la bagatelle !» 
Which charm'd our days in each iEgean clime, 
As oft at home with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last ; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed/ 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 
Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
Yet Chesterfield, 2 whose polish'd pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 
Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains, 
And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act ! again let Humour roam 
Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at home; 
Let « Archer » plant the horns on « Sullen's » brows, 
And « Estifania » gull her « Copper » 3 spouse ; 
The morals scant — but that may be excused, 
Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ; 
Ay, but Macheath's example — pshah ! no more ! 
It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before ; 
And spite of puritans and Collier's curse,4 
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 
Nor burn damn'd Drury, if it rise again. 
But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ? 
Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 
For times of fire and faggot let them hope ; 
Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
E'en now the songs cf Solyma begin ; 
Faith cants, perplex' d apologist of sin ! 

1 Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of Sophron was 
found the day he died. — Vide Barthelemi, De Pauw, or Diogenes 
Laertius, if agreeable. De Pauw calls it a jest-book,— Cumberland, 
in his Observer, terms it moral, like the sayings of u Publius 
Syrus.i 

2 His speech on the licensing act is one of his most eloquent 
efforts. 

3 Michael Perez, the « Copper Captain, » in « Rule a Wife and 
have a Wife." 

4 Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, etc. on the subject 
of the drama is too well known to require further comment. 



ADDENDA. 



7 .5 



While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 
And Simeon kicks where Baxter only « shoves. »' 

Whom nature guides, so -writes, that every dunce, 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let Pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 
Instruct how hard the medium 't is to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest ; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults — his wit hath made them pass 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras, 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet: 
Nor less in merit than the longer line 
This measure moves, a favourite of the Nine. 
Though, at first view, eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in odes, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme — but most in love an d war ; 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 't is hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of « correct ?» 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ,• 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste ; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 

1 u Baxter's Shove to heavy-a d Christians." The veritable 

title of a book once in good repute, and likely enough to be so 

again. — Mr S is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator 

of « good works. » He is ably supported by John Stickles, a 
labourer in the same vineyard : — but I say no more, for, ac- 
cording to Johnny, in full congregation, u J\~ hopes for them as 
laughs. n 



In sooth, I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who our first English strollers were, 
Or if — till roofs received the vagrant art — 
Our Muse— like that of Thespis— kept a cart. 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
There 's pomp enough, if little else, in plays; 
Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
At least we moderns, wisely, 't is confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who chuse 
An English subject for an English muse, 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic fame, 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop like Pope to polish by the way ? 

Lords of the quill ! whose critical assaults 
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail ; 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 

But, truth to say, most : rhymcrs rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake, 
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake ; » 
Then print your book, once more return to town, 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring (like Bayes) before I write ? 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
1 know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I '11 labour gratis as a grinder's wheel, 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 
And from my own example, what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
'T is just as well to think before you write ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

1 As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid; and 
may, like him, be one day a senator, having a belter qualification 
than one half of the heads he crops, viz.— independence. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
To friends and country, and to pardon foes; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar ; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophise : 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To « long and short » before they 're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
« A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got.» 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder make ? — 
« A groat.» — « Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum! 
He '11 swell my fifty thousand to a plum.» 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'T is clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you that the father 's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight; 
For poets (says this sage, 1 and many more), 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Ims* or an Irish mine. 3 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Bedundance places memory on the rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wond'rous tales, 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense ; 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row: 



1 I have not the original by me, but the Italian translation runs 
as follows: — « E una cosa a mio credere molto stravagante, che un 
padre desideri, o permelta, cbe suo figliuolo coltiri e perfezioni 
questo talento.n A little further on : k Si trovano di rado nel Par- 
naso le miniere d.' oro e d' argento.» — Educazione del Fanciulli del 
Signor Locke. Venetian edition. 

2 « Iro pauperior :n— This is tbe same beggar who boxed with 
Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which be lost, and half a dozen 
teeth besides. —See Odyssey, b. 18. 

3 The Irish gold-mine of Wicklow, which yields just ore enough 
to swear by, or gild a bad guinea. 



His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass) ; 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices at their owners' call, 
With all their best endeavours, only squall; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, 
And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. l 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally, to books or men, 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend, 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let Havard's fate 2 o'ertake him, who, for once, 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
At firstnone deem'd it his, but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then 1 — it lost its fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work 't is fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight : 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 
Hath led to listen to the muse's voice, 
Beceive this counsel, and be timely wise.; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
In these plain common sense will travel far; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar : 
But poesy, between the best and worst 
No medium knows ; you must be last or first : 
For middling poets' miserable volumes, 
Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel, 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 
Or mild Eclectics, 3 when some, worse than Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate « good works. » 

1 As Mr Pope took tbe liberty of damning Homer, to whom be was 
under great obligations — « And Homer (damn him) callsU— it may 
be presumed that any body or any thing may be damned in -verse by 
poetical license ; and in case of accident, I beg leave to plead so il- 
lustrious a precedent. 

2 For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see « Davies's Life 
of Garrick.n I believe it is « Regulus,» or .< Charles the First. •> 
—The moment it was known to be his the theatre thinned, and 
the bookseller refused to give the customary sum for the copy- 
right. 

3 To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thanks 
for tbe fervour of that charity which, in 1809, induced them to ex- 
press a hope, that a thing then published by me might lead to cer- 
tain consequences, which, although natural enough, surely came 
but rashly from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, 
where they congratulated themselves on the prospect of a tilt 



ADDENDA. 



Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 
My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase ! 
For thee my Pegasus -would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas ! I cannot « strike at wretched kernes.» 
Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart bv choice so wholly thine ? 

Dear, d d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 

Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's -wrongs? 

If unprovoked thou once couldst bid me bleed, 

Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 

What ! not a word ! — and am I then sc low ? 

Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 

Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 

No wit for nobles, dunces by descent? 

No jest on « minors, » quibbles on a name, 

Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 

Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, 

And thought of Homer less than Holyrood? 

On shore of Euxine or ^Egean sea, 

My hate, un travel I'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 

Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom burns — 

From Corydon unkind Alexis turns ! l 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 

To write an article thou canst not shun ; 

Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 

As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 
And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime, 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites : 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 

between Mr Jeffrey and myself, from which some great go'd was to 
accrue, provided one or both were knocked on the head. Having 
survived two years and a half those " Elegies ■ which they were 
kindly preparing to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give them 
a so joyful a trouble, » except, indeed, « upon compulsion, Hal ;» — 
but if, as David says in the u Rivals," it should come to « bloody 
sword and gun fighting." we * won't run, will we, Sir Lucius ?« I 
do not know what I had don? to these Eclectic gentlemen : my 
works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces, like Agag, 
if it seem meet unto them ; but why they should be in such a burn- 
to kill off their author, I am ignorant. « The race is not always 
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong :« and now, as these Chris- 
tians have « smote me on one cheek," I hold them up the other ; 
and in return for their good wishes, give them an opportunity of 
repeating them. Had any other set of men expressed such senti- 
ments, I should have smiled, and left them to the « recording 
angel," but from the pharisees of Christianity decency might be 
expected. I can assure these brethren, that, publican and sinner as 
I am, I would not have treated « mine enemy's doj thus." To show 
them the superiority of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend 
Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should be engaged in such a conflict as 
that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they may escape with 
being « winged" only, and that Heaviside may be at hand to extract 
the ball. 

1 " Invenies alium, si te hie fastidit, Alexin." 



Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expertness without years of toil; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
Tag twenty thousand couplets when they please. 
Why not? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate, 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
To all their income, and to twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic salt ? 

Thus think « the mob of gentlemen ;» but you, 
Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust,, will spare us for at least nine years. 
And hark'ye, Southey ! • pray — but don't be vext — 
Burn all your last three works — and half the- next. 

1 Mr Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in the 
" Curse of Kehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc, etc., and has in 
one instance had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, 
walking out one lovely evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge 
of thePaddington canal was alarmed by the cry of ^one in jeopardy -." 
he rushed along, collected a body of Triah haymakers (supping on 
buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), procured three rakes, one eel- 
spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horreseo referens) pulled out 
— bis own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and 
so was a largj quarto, wherewith he bad taken the leap ; which 
proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr Southey's last work. Its 
u alacrity of sinking s was so great, that it has never since been 
heard of, though some maintain that it is at this moment con- 
cealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises, Ccwnhill. Be this as it 
may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of >- Felo de bib] io- 
pola " against a " quarto unknown;" and circumstantial evidence 
being since strong against the « Curse of Kehama ■ (of which the 
above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its 
peers next session, in Grub-street: — Arthur, Alfred, Bavideis, 
Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodia, Epigoniad. Calvary, Fall 
of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the 
Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, 
Bowles, and the bellman of St Sepulchre's. The same advocates, 
pro and con., will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Bur- 
den's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public anxiously 
await the result, and all live publishers will be subpoenaed as wit- 
nesses. 

But Mr Southey has published the u Curse of Kehama:" an invit- 
ing title to quibblers. By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott 
and Campbell, and net much above Southey, to allow the booby 
Ballantyne to entitle them, in the Edinburgh Annual Register (of 
which, by the by, Southey is editor) u the grand poetical triumvirate 
of the day." But, on second thoughts, it can be no great degree of 
praise to be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, thoagh they might as 
well keep to themselves * Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which 
must sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, it 
should seem, is the « Lepidus » of this poetical triumvirate. 1 am 
only surprised to see him in such good company: 

Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare. 
But wonder how the devil he came there. 
The trio are well defiued in the sixth proposition of Euclid : ■ Be- 
cause, in the triangles BDC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and BC, com- 
mon to both ; thi two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, CB, 
each to each, and the angle DBC is equal to the angle ACB : there- 
fore, the base DC is equal to the base AB, and the triangle DBC (Mr 
Southey) is equal to the triangle ACB, the less to the greater, which 
is absurd,* etc. The editor of the Edinburgh Register will find 
the rest of the theorem hard by his stabling : he has only to cross 
the river ; 't is the first turnpike t' other side « Pons Asinorum." — 
V This Latin has sorely puz/led the University of Edinburgh. Bal- 
lantyne said it meant the « Bridge of Berwick," but Southev claimed 
it as half English ; Scott swore it was the « Brig o' Stirling ;» he had 
just passed two King Jameses and a dozen Douglasses overit. Atlast 
it was decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor less than 
the * counter of Archy Constable's shop.* 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But why this vain advice? once publish 'd, books 
Can never be recall'd— from pastry-cooks ! 
Though « Madoc,» with « Pucelle^ 1 instead of Punch, 
May travel back to Quito on a trunk ! 2 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
And served the church without demanding tithes; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
And fighting 's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warr'd 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard), 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 

The muse, like mortal females, may be wood ; 
In turns she '11 seem a Paphian or a prude; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part; 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain; 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride or run a race 
Must bear privations with unruffled face, 
Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine, 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, 
Have follow'd music through her farthest flight ; 
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
« I 've got a pretty poem for the press ;» 
And that 's enough — then write and print so fast — 
If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 

1 Voltaire's « Puerile » is not quite so immaculate as Mr Soutliey's 
u Joan of Arc," and yet I am afraid the Frenchman has both more 
truth and poetry too on his side— (they rarely go together) — than 
our patriotic minstrel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical 
French strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the 
change of the first letter. 

2 Like Sir B. Burgess's Bichard, the tenth book of which I read 
at Malta, on a trunk of Eyres's, 19, Cockspur-street. If this be 
doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau to quote from. 



They storm the types, they publish one and all, 

They leap the counter, and they leave the stall : 

Provincial maidens, men of high command, 

Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand! 

Cash cannot quell them — Pollio play'd this prank : 

(Then Plicebus first found credit in a bank!) 

Not all the living only, but the dead 

Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ! » 

Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive, 

Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 

Reviews record this epidemic crime, 

Those « Books of Martyrs » to the rage for rhyme. 

Alas! woe worth the scribbler, often seen 

In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine ! 

There lurk his earlier lays, — but soon, hot-press'd, 

Behold a quarto ! — tarts must tell the rest ! 

Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 

To muse-mad baronets or madder lords, 

Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 

Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 

Hark to those notes, narcotically soft, 

The cobbler-laureates 2 sing to Capel Lofft! 3 



1 Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, 
Gurgite cum medio portans OEagrius Hebrus, 
Vulveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua ; 
Ah, miseram Eurydicen ! anima fugiente vocabat ; 
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripae. — Geonjic. iv, 523. 

2 I beg Nathaniel's pardon ; lie is not a cobbler ; it is a tailor, 
but beggeJ Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface to two 

pair of panta psha !— of cantos, which he wished the public to 

try on ; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved the 
expense of an advertisement to his country customers. — Merry's 
u Moorfields' whine » was nothing to all this. The h Delia Crus- 
cans 1 were people of some education and no profession ; but these 
Arcadians (« Arcades ambo n— bumpkins both) send out their na- 
tive nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes 
and smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on 
Enclosures and Parans to Gunpowder. Sitting on a shopboard, 
they describe fields of battle, when the only blood they ever saw 
was shed from the finger ; and an « Essay on War n is produced by 
the ninth part of a u poet." 

And own that nine such poets made a Tate. 
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, why not take 
it as his motto? 

3 This well-meaning gentleman has spoilt some excellent shoe- 
makers, and been accessary to the poetical undoing of many of the 
industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have 
set all Somersetshire singing. Nor has the malady confined itself 
to one county. Pratt, too (who once was wiser), has caught the con- 
tagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow named Blacken, into 
poetry ; but he died during the operation, leaving one child and 
two volumes of « Remains," utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't 
take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may 
do well, but the u Tragedies * are as rickety as if they had been ihe 
offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this 
poor lad are certainly answerable for his end, and it ought to be an 
indictable offence. But this is the least they have done ; for, by a 
refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man posthum- 
ously ridiculous, by printing what he would have had sense enough 
never to print himself. Certes, these rakers of uB< j mains» come 
under the statute against resurrection-men. What does it signify 
whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or in 
Stationers' Hall ? is it so bad to unearth his bones as his blunders ? 
is it not belter to gibbet his body on a heath than his soul in an oc- 
tavo ? u We know w hat we are, but we know not what we may be ;» 
and it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed 
through life with a sort of eclat is to find himself a mountebank on 
the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blacken, the laugh- 
ing-stock of purgatory. The plea of publication is to provide for 
the child. Now, might not some of this « sutor ultra crepidam's i> 
friends and seducers have done a decent action, without inveigling 
Pratt into biography? And then, his inscription split into so many 
modicums! « To the Duchess of So Much, the Bight Honourable So- 
and-so, and Mrs and Miss Somebody, these volumes are," cic. etc. 



ADDENDA. 



7*9 



Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
Adds an ell's growth to his egregious ears ! 

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme ; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship 's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught, to him ? 
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. 
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate ; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town ; 
If so, alas ! 't is nature in the man — 
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 
Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's briuk, 
But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 
Be (what they never were before), be sold ! 
Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 
In modern physics, we can scarce allow), 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 
Some rhyming peer— there 's plenty of the sort— 1 

Why, this is doling out the « soft milk of dedication » in gills '. — 
there is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt ! 
hadst thou not a puff left? dost thou think six. families of distinction 
can sbare this in quiet? There is a child, a book, and a dedication : 
send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the dedi- 
cation to the devil. 

' Here will Mr Gifford allow me to introduce once more to his no- 
tice the sole survivor, the « ultimus Romanorum,» the last of the 
u Cruscanti !* — a Edwin n the u profound," by our Lady of Punish- 
ment', here he is, as lively as in the days of « well said Baviad the 
Correct. n I thought Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy, but, 
alas ! he is only the penultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE M0RM>'G CHRONICLE. 

«'What reams of paper, floods of ink, i 

Do some men spoil, who never think ! 

And so perhaps you 11 say of me, 

In which your readers may agree. 

Still I write on, and tell you why ; 

Nothing 's so bad, you can't deny, 

But may instruct or entertain 

Without the risk of giving pain. 

And should you doubt what I assert, 

The name of Camden I insert, 

Who novels read, and oft maintain'd 

He here and there some knowleJge gain'd ; 

Then why not I indulge my pen. 

Though I no fame or profit gain, 

Yet may amuse your idle men ; 

Of whom, though some may be severe. 

Others may read without a sneer 1 

Thus much premised. I nest proceed 

To give you what I feel my creed, 

And in what follows to display 

Some humours of the passing day. 

OK SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS. 

In* tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses, 
Though strange, 't is true, we often find 

It knows not its resources : 
And men through life assume a part 

For which no talents they possess, 
Yet wonder that, with all their art, 

They meet no better with success. 



All but one poor dependant priest withdrawn, 

(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 

Condemn th' unlucky curate to recite 

Their last dramatic work by caudle-light, 

How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 

Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief ! 

Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death, 

He '11 risk no living for a little breath. 

Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) « Bravo ! grand ! divine !» 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by flattery, fed, 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread), 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot, 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart; — 

But all dissemblers overact their part. 

Ye who aspire to build the lofty rhyme, 
Believe not all who laud your false « sublime ;» 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
« Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,» 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers, « Burn !» 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend, 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains,' — 
We '11 have no words — I 've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought, 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside — 
Belter let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to passages too much in shade, 
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 

'T is thus we see, through life's career, 

So few excel in their profession ; 
Whereas, would each man but appear 

In what 's within his own possession, 
We should not see such daily quacks 

(For quacks there are in ev'ry art) 
Attempting, by their strange attacks, 

To meliorate the mind and heart. 
Nor mean I here the stage alone, 

Where some deserve th' applause they meet ; 
For quacks there are, and they well known, 

In either House, who hold a seat. 
Reform 's the order of the day, I hear, 

To which I cordially assent : 
But then let this reform appear, 

And ev'ry class of men cement. 
For if you but reform a few, 

And others leave to their full bent, 
I fear you will but little do, 

And find your time and pains mispent. 
Let each man to his post assign'd 

By Nature, take his part to act. 
And then few causes shall we find 

To call each man we meet— a quack.* 

* For such every man is who either appears to be what he is not, 
or strives to be what he cannot. 

1 Baslard of your brains. — Minerva being the first by Jupiter's 
headpiece, and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon 
earth, such as Madoc, etc. etc. etc. 

9i 



720 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Your friend 's « a Johnson, » not to leave one word, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, 
And furnish food for critics, 1 or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, 
As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs ; 2 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily or placeman's speech ; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 
If by some chance he walks into a well, 
And shouts for succour with Stentorian yell, 
« A rope ! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace !» 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace ; 
For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
Though this has happen'd to more bards than one, 
I '11 tell you Budgell's story, and have done. 

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood), 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
« To die like Cato,» 3 leapt into the Thames ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
Who saves th' intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely chuse. 

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 
Dosed with vile drams 4 on Sunday he was found, 
Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
If free, all fly his versifying fit, 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 
Rut him, unhappy! whom he seizes, — him 
He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 
And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 

1 u A crust for the critics." —Bayes, in the Rehearsal. 

2 And the u waiters » are the only fortunate people who can « fly " 
from them ; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the " Literary 
Fund,i being compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation, with- 
out a hope of exclaiming, « Sic » (that is, by choaking Fitz. with bad 
wine or worse poetry) « me servavit Apollo." 

5 On his table were found these words : « What Cato did and Ad- 
dison approved, cannot he wrong." But Addison did not « approve ;» 
and if he had, it would not hare mended the matter. He had in- 
vited his daughter on the same water-party, but Miss BudgeH, by 
some accident, escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the 
sycophant of a Atticus," and the enemy of Pope. 

4 If ■■ dosed with," etc. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to 
the original for something still lower ; and if any reader will trans- 
late u Minxerit in patrios cineres," etc. into a decent couplet, I will 
insert said couplet in lieu of the present. 



THE BLUES, 1 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 

Nimiuni ne crede colori. — Virgil. 
O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Though your hair were as red as your stockings are blue. 

ECLOGUE FIRST. 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 

Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 



You 're too late. 



TRACY. 

Is it over? 



« Difficile estproprie communia dicerc — Madame Dacier, Madame 
de Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the 
meaning of this passage, in a tract considerably longer than the 
poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh volume 
of Madame de Sevigne's Letters, edited by Grouvelle, Paris, 1806. 
Presuming that all who can construe may venture an opinion on 



INKEL. 

Nor will be this hour. 
But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in flower, 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 

fashion ; 
So instead of « beaux arts,» we may say « la belle passion » 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 

TRACY. 

I know it too well, and have worn out my patience 

With studying to study your new publications. 

There 's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthey, and Wordswords 

and Co. 
With their damnable — 

INKEL. 

Hold, my good friend, do you know 
Whom you speak to ? 

TRACY. 

Right well, boy, and so does « the Row :» 
You 're an author — a poet — 

INKEL. 

And think you that I 
Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 



such subjects, particularly as so many who can not have taken the 
same liberty, I should have held my u farthing candle » as awk- 
wardly as another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis the 
Fourteenth's Augustan siecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious 
authorities, ist, Boileau : u II est difficile de traiter des sujets qui 
sonta la portee de tout le monde d'une maniere qui vous les rend 
propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu'on y 
donne." zdly, Batteux : u Mais il est bien difficile de donner des 
traits propres et individuels aux etres purement possibles." 3dly, 
Dacier : u II est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caracteres 
que tout le monde pent inventer." Madame de Sevigne's opinion 
and translation, consisting of some thirty pages, I omit, particu- 
larly as M. Grouvelle observes, « La chose est bien remarquable, 
aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait etre la veritable." 
But, by way of comfort, it s^eras, fifty years afterwards, « Le lumi- 
neux Dumarsais * made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs 
again, u dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentimens ;" 
and, some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will 
doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this 
weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or 
comments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations 
on the present comet. I am happy to say, u la longueur de la dis- 
sertation " of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any more on the 
matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at least as good a scholar 
as Sevigne, has said, 

A little learning is a dangerous thing. 
And by this comparison of comments it may be perceived how a good 
deal may be rendered as perilous to the proprietors. 
1 From the « Liberal," No. III.— Ed. 



ADDENDA, 



2 1 



TRACY. 

Excuse me ; I meant no offence 
To the Nine ; though the number who make some 

pretence 

To their favours is such Cut the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, 
As one finds every author in one of those places), 
Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
Where your friend — you know who— has just got such 

a threshing, 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely « refreshing.* 
What a beautiful word ! 

INKEL. 

Very true ; 't is so soft, 
And so cooling— they use it a little too oft; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
So they 've cut up our friend, then ? 

TRACY. 

Not left him a tatter- 
Not a rag of his present or past reputation, 
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

INKEL. 

I 'm sorry to hear this ; for friendship, you know 

Our poor friend!— but I thought it would terminate so. 
Our friendship is such, I '11 read nothing to shock it.— 
You don't happen to have the Review in your pocket? 

TRACY. 

No ; I left a round dozen of authors and others 
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brothers) 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 
And en fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 

INKEL. 

Let us join them. 

TRACY. 

What! won't you return to the lecture? 

INKEL. 

Why, the place is so cramm'd, there 's not room for a 

spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

TRACY. 

How can you know that till you hear him? 

INKEL. 

I heard 
Quite enough ; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 

TRACY. 

I have had no great loss, then ? 

INKEL. 

Loss !— such a palaver! 
I 'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Pump'dup with such effort, disgorged with such labour, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbour. 

TRACY. 

J make you ! 

INKEL. 

Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 



TIUCY. 

To speak ill ? 
Is that your deduction ? 

INKEL. 

When speaking of Scamp ill, 
I certainly follow, not set an example. 
The fellow 's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

TRACY. 

And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool makes 

many. 
But we two will be wise. 

INKEL. 

Pray, then, let us retire. 

TRACY. 

I would, but 

INKEL. 

There must be attraction much higher 
Thau Scamp, or the Jew's-harp he nicknames his lyre, 
To call you to this hot-bed. 

TRACY. 

I own it — 't is true — 
A fair lady 

INKLE. 

A spinster ? 

TRACY. 

Miss Lilac ! 

INKLE. 

The Blue ! 

The heiress ? 

TRACY. 

The angel ! 

INKEL. 

The devil ! why, man ! 
Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac ! 't would be your perdition : 
She 's a poet, a chemist, a mathematician. 

TRACY. 

I say she 's an angel. 

INKEL. 

Say rather an angle. 
If you and she marry, you '11 certainly wrangle. 
I say she 's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

TRACY. 

And is that any cause for not coming together ? 

INKEL. 

Humph ! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science. 
She 's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with learning, 
That 

TRACY. 

What ? 

INKEL. 

I perhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 
But there 's five hundred people can tell you you 're 
wrong. 

TRACY. 

You forget Lady Lilac 's as rich as a Jew. 

INKEL. 

Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue ? 

TRACY. 

Why, Jack, I '11 be frank with you — something of both. 
The girl 's a fine girl. 

INKEL. 

And you feel nothing loth 



722 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own, 1 will bet. 

TRACY. 

Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I demand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand. 

INKEL. 

Why, that heart 's in the inkstand — that hand on the 
pen. 

TRACY. 

Apropos— Will you write me a song now and then ? 

INKEL. 

To what purpose ? 

TRACY. 

You know, my dear friend, that iu prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
But in rhyme 

INKEL. 

You 're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

TRACY. 

I own it ; and yet, in these times, there 's no lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few? 

INKEL. 

In your name? 

TRACY. 

Tn my name. I will copy them out, 
To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

INKEL. 

Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 

TRACY. 

Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 

So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 

What I 've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime ? 

INKEL. 

As sublime I If it be so, no need of my Muse. 

TRACY. 

But consider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the « Blues." 

INKEL. 

As sublime ! — Mr Tracy — I 've nothing to say. 

Stick to prose — As sublime! — but I wish you good day. 

TRACY. 

Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I 'm wrong ; 
I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song. 

INKEL. 

As sublime ! ! 

TRACY. 

I but used the expression in haste. 

INKEL. 

That may be, Mr Tracy, but shows damn'd bad taste. 

TRACY. 

I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
Can I say to you more ? 

INKEL. 

I see what you 'd be at : 
You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, 
Till you think you can turn them best to your own use. 

TRACY. 

And is that not a sign I respect them? 

INKEL. 

Why that, 



To be sure, makes a difference. 

TRACY. 



I know what is what 



And you, who 're a man of the gay -world, no less 
Than a poet of t* other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 

INKEL. 

No doubt ; you by this time should know what is due 
To a man of but come — let us shake hands. 

TRACY. 

You knew, 
And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 

INKEL. 

That 's my bookseller's business ; I care not for sale : — 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
And my own grand romance 

TRACY. 

Had its full share of praise. 
I myself saw it puff'd in the « Old Girl's Review." 

INKEL. 

What Review ? 

TRACY. 

'T is the English « Journal de Trevoux;» 
A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

INKEL. 

That pleasure 's to come. 

TRACY. 

Make haste, then. 

INKEL. 

Why so ? 

TRACY. 

I have heard people say 
That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t' other day. 

INKEL. 

Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 

TRACY. 

No doubt. 
Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? 

INKEL. 

I 've a card, and shall go ; but at present, as soon 

As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the 

moon 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits), 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I 'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
To partake of a luncheon and Jearn'd conversation : 
'T is a sort of re-union for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. 
And I own, for my own part, that't is not unpleasant. 
Will you go ? There 's Miss Lilac will also be present. 

TRACY. 

That « metal's attractive." 

INKEL. 

No doubt — to the pocket. 

TRACY. 

You should rather encourage my passion than shock it. 
But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum 

INKEL. 

Very true ; let us go, then, before they can come, 
Or else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy, 
On the rack of cross-questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark ! zounds, they '11 be on us! I know by the drone 
Of old Botherby's spouting, ex cathedra tone. 



ADDENDA. 



723 



Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 

Your friends, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 

TRACY. 

All fair ; 't is but lecture for lecture. 

INKEL. 

That 's clear. 
But for God's sake let 's go, or the bore will be here. 
Come, come : nay, I 'm off. [Exit Inkel. 

TRACY. 

You are right, and I '11 follow ; 
'T is high time for a « Sic me servavit Apollo.* 
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes, 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

[Exit Tracy. 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 

An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle.— ?A 
Table prepared. 

Sir Bichaud Bluebottle solus. 

SIR RICHARD. 

Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void, 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd : 
The twelve, do I say? — of the whole twenty-four, 
Is there one which I dare call my own any more? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining, 
What with learning and teaching, and scribbling, and 

shining, 
In science and art, I 'li be curst if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, 
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be done 
In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, while, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
— For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
No pleasure! no leisure ! no thought for my pains, 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call « Blues ;» 

A rabble who know not But, soft, here they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf ! as I 'm not, I '11 be dumb. 

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Bluemount, 
Mr Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss Mazarine, and 
others, with Scamp the Lecturer, etc. etc. 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

Ah! Sir Richard, good morning; I 've brought you 
some friends. 
sir richard (bows, and afterwards aside). 
If friends, they 're the first. 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

But the luncheon attends. 



I pray ye be seated, « sans ceremonies 
Mr Scamp, you *rc fatigued; take your chair, there, 
next me. [They al1 sit - 

sir Richard [aside). 
If he does, his fatigue is to come. 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

Mr Tracy, 
Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr Botherby — 

BOTHERBY. 

Oh, my dear Lady, 
I obey. 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

Mr Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
You were not at the lecture. 

INKEL. 

Excuse me, I was ; 
But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 
And when 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 

BOTHERBY. 

The best of the ten. 

TRACY. 

How can you know that? there are two more. 

BOTHERBY. 

Because 
I defy him to beat this day's wond'rous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

INKEL. 

Oh ! if that be the test, 
I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a wing? 

miss lilac. 
No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures next spring ? 

BOTHERBY. 

Dick Dunder. 

INKEL. 

That is, if he lives. 

MISS LILAC. 

And why not ? 

INKEL. 

No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira? 

LADY BLUEMOUNT. 

With pleasure. 

INKEL. 

How does your friend Wordswords, that Windermere 

treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings, 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and kings? 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

He has just got a place. 

INKEL. 

As a footman ? 

LADY BLUEMOUNT. 

For shame ! 
Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

INKEL. 

Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master; 

For the poet of pedlars 't were, sure, no disaster 

To wear a new livery; the more, as 't is not 

The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat. 







724 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


BOTHERBY. 


For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George could but hear 


At last? 


LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


INKEL. 


Never mind our friend Inkel ; we all know, my dear, 


Why I thought— that 's to say— there had past 


'T is his way. 


A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know 


SIR RICHARD. 


That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 


But this place 


BOTHERBY. 


INKEL. 


Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's the com- 


Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 


mittee. 


A lecturer's. 


INKEL. 


LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our « pity 


Excuse me — 't is one in « the Stamps :» 


And fear,» as the Greek says : for « purging the mind,» 


He is made a collector. 


I doubt if you 11 leave us an equal behind. 


TRACY. 


BOTHERBY. 


Collector? 


I have written the prologue, and meant to have pray'd 


SIR RICHARD. 


For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 


How ? 


INKEL. 


MISS LILAC. 


Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to be play'd. 


What? 


Is it cast yet. 




BOTHERBY. 


INKEL. 

I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat : 
There his works will appear 


The actors are fighting for parts, 


As is usual iu that most litigious of arts. 




LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


We '11 all make a party, and go the first night. 

TRACY. 


Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 


INKEL. 


And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 


I shan't go so far — I can have them at Grange's. 1 


INKEL. 


LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


Not quite. 


Oh fie ! 


However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 


MISS LILAC. 


I '11 do what I can, though my pains must be double. 


And for shame ! 


TRACY. 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


Why so ? 


You 're too bad. 


INKEL. 


BOTHERBY. 


To do justice to what goes before. 


Very good ! 


BOTHERBY. 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


Sir, I 'm happy to say, I 've no fears on that score. 


How good ? 


Your parts, Mr Inkel, are 


LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


INKEL. 


He means nought — 't is his phrase. 


Never mind mine ; 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 


He grows rude. 


line. 


LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 


You 're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes ? 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


INKEL. 


Pray, sir ! did you mean 


Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 


What you say? 


On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, 


INKEL. 


Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 


Never mind if he did ; 't will be seen 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 


That whatever he means wont alloy what he says. 


Sir, your taste is too common ; but time and posterity 


BOTHERBY. 


Will right these great men, and this age's severity 


Sir! 


Become its reproach. 


INKEL. 


INKEL. 


Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 


I 've no sort of objection, 


'T was in your defence. 


So I 'm not of the party to take the infection. 


BOTHERBY. 


LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 


If you please, with submission, 


Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will take? 


I can make out my own. 


INKEL. 


INKEL. 


Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the Lake 


It would be your perdition. 


Have taken already, and still will continue 


While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 


To take— what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 


Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend. 


Of pension or place ; but the subject 's a bore. 


Apropos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 


LADY BLUEMOUNT. 




Well, sir, the time 's coming. 


1 Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in Pic- 


INKEL. 


cadilly. 


Scamp ! don't you feel sore? 



ADDENDA. 



7^5 



What say you to this ? 

SCAMP. 

They liave merit, I own ; 
Though their system's ahsurdity keeps it unknown. 

inkel. 
Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures? 

SCAMP. 

It is only time past which comes under my strictures. 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

Come, a truce with all tartness : — the joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature !— Grand Shakspeare! 

BOTHERBY. 

And down Aristotle ! 

LADY BLUEMOUNT. 

Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle; 
And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 

TRACY. 

And you, Scamp? 

SCAMP. 

I needs must confess I 'm embarrass'd. 

INKEL. 

Don't call upon Scamp, who 's already so harass'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and 
all schools. 

TRACY. 

Well, one thing is certain, that some must be fools. 
I should like to know who. 

INKEL. 

And I should not be sorry 
To know who are not : — it would save us some worry. 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

A truce with remark, and let nothing control 
This « feast of our reason and flow of the soul.» 
Oh, my dear Mr Botherby! sympathise ! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I 'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic — « so buoyant, so buoyant!*) 1 

INKEL. 

Tracy! open the window. 

TRACY. 

I wish her much joy on 't. 

BOTHERBY. 

For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle! check not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way ; 't is an impulse which lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
tain. 
'T is the source of all sentiment, feeling's true fountain : 
'T is the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 't is the gas 
Of the soul : 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, 
And making them substance : 't is something divine: — 

INKEL. 

Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine ? 

BOTHERBY. 

I thank you; not any more, sir, till I dine. 

INKEL. 

Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to-day? 

TRACY. 

I should think with Duke Humphrey was more in your 
way. 

1 Fact, from life, with the ivords. 



INKEL. 
It might be, of yore ; but we authors now look 
To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than the Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases. 
But 't is now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 

TRACY. 

And I '11 take a turn with you there till 't is dark. 
And you, Scamp — 

SCAMP. 

Excuse me ; I must to my notes, 
For my lecture next week. 

INKEL. 

He must mind whom he quotes 
Out of « Elegant Extracts. » 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

Well, now we break up ; 
But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 

INKEL. 

Then at two hours past midnight we all meet again, 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champaigne! 

TRACY. 

And the sweet lobster salad ! 

BOTHERBY. 

I honour that meal ; 
For 't is then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 

INKEL. 

True; feeling is truest then, far beyond question : 
I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion ! 

LADY BLUEBOTTLE. 

Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one moment of feeling 
Is worth— God knows what. 

INKEL. 

'T is at least worth concealing 

For itself or what follows But here comes your 

carriage. 

sir richard [aside). 

I wish all these people were d d with my marriage ! 

[Exeunt. 



PART OF «MANFRED,.. r 

TAKEN FROM THE ORIGINAL COPY OF THAT DRAMA, AS IT 
WAS AT FIRST SENT TO MR MURRAY. 

ABBOT. 

Then hear and tremble ! For the headstrong wretch 

Who in the mail of innate hardihood 

Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 

There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal — 

MANFRED. 

Charity, most reverend father, 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
That I would call thee back to it ; but say, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

ABBOT. 

It may be there are 
Things that would shake thee — but I keep them back, 
And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 

1 The above fragment originally formed part of the Third Act, 
which Lord Byron found reason to remodel : no part of what we 
now give was retained. The suppression commences directly after 
the words, « Prove and punish !>. addressed by Manfred to the Abbot, 
about the middle of Scene I. as it now stands. — En. 



726 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
To the monastery 

MANFRED. 

I understand thee, — well ! 

ABBOT. 

Expect no mercy; I have warned thee. 

Manfred {opening the casket). 

Stop 

There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfred opens the casket, strikes a light, and 
barns some incense. 
Ho ! Ashtaroth ! 

The Demon Ashtaroth appears, singing as follows : 
The raven sits 

On the raven-stone, 
And his hlack wing flits 

O'er the milk-white hone ; 
To and fro, as the night-winds hlow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone, 1 

The raven flaps his dusky wings. 
The fetters creak — and his ehon heak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound; 
And this is the tune by the light of the moon 

To which the witches dance their round. 
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily, 

Merrily, merrily speeds the hall : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds, 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 

ABBOT. 

I fear thee not — hence — hence — 

Avaunt thee, evil one! — help, ho ! without there ! 

MANFRED. 

Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — to its peak- 
To its extremest peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not ; and, when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in Ids cell — away with him ! 

ASHTAROTH. 

Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
Convent and all, to bear him company ? 

MANFRED. 

No, this will serve for the present. Take him up. 

ASHTAROTH. 

Come, friar ! now an exorcism or two, 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

Ashtaroth disappears with the Aebot, singing as 
follows : 
A prodigal son, and a maid undone, 

And a widow re-wedded within the year; 
And a worldly monk, and a pregnant nun, 
Are things which every day appear. 
manfred (alone). 
Why would this fool break in on me, and force 
My art to pranks fantastical 1 — Xo matter, 
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens, 
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul : 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane ; the winds are still, 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in them. Such a rest 

1 Karen-stone (Rabenstein), a translation of the German word 
for the gibbet, which, in Germany and Switzerland, is permanent, 
and made of stone. 



Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd 
In the immortal part of me. 



FRANCE SGA OF RIMINI. 

TRANSLATION FROM THE « INFERNO » OF DANTE, CANTO V. 

« The land where I was born sits by the seas, 

Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 

With all his followers, in search of peace. 
Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 

Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 

From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 
Love, who to none beloved to love again 

Bemits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 

That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
Love to one death conducted us along, 

But Caina waits for him our life who ended :» 

These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. 

Since first I listen'd to these souls offended, 

I bow'd my visage and so kept it till — 

( then I 

« What think'st thou ?» said the bard ; \ when ) 
unbended, 
And recommenced : « Alas ! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstacies 

Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !» 
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 

And said, « Francesca, thy sad destinies 

Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 

By what and how thy love to Passion rose, 

So as his dim desires to recognise ?» 
Then she to me : « The greatest of all woes 
( recall to mind ) 

Is to ( remind us of j our happy days 
t this J 

In misery, and ( that j thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
\ relate ) 

I will ( do ■ even \ as he who weeps and says. 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 

Of Lancilot, how Love enchain'd him too. 

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously, 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolour'd by that reading were ; 

! overthrew ) 
us o'erthrew ) — 
( desired ) 
When we read the ( long-sighed-for ) smile of her, 
( a fervent I 
To be thus kiss'd by such ( devoted ) lover, 
He who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed was the book and he who w r rote ! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover." 

While thus one Spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls. 

1 « In some of the editions it is 'diro,' 11 
sential difference between ' saying ' and ' 
not how to decide. Ask Foscolo. The d- 
mad.n — Lord Byron to Mr Murray. 



others ' faro ; —an es- 
doing,' which I know 
— d editions drive me 



ADDENDA 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st tliou the accents of despair? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 
Father of Light, on thee I call '. 

Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 
Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own; 

Spare, yet amend the faults of youth. 
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 

Let Superstition hail the pile ; 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

"With tales of mystic rites beguile. 
Shall man confine his Maker's sway 

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 
Thy temple is the face cf day ; 

Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. 
Shall man condemn his race to hell, 

Unless they bend in pompous form ; 
Tell us that all, for one who fell, 

Must perish in the mingling storm? 
Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire, 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 
Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, 
Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
Shall those, who live for self alone, 

Whose years float on in daily crime- 
Shall they by faith for guilt atone. 

And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 
Father ! no prophet's laws I seek, — 

Thy laws in Nature's works appear ;— 
I own myself corrupt and weak. 

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 

Through trackless realms of Other's space; 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace :— 
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 

Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 
Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 

Extend to me thy wide defence. 
To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or woe betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall, 

In thy protection I confide. 
If, when this dust to dust restored, 
My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all thy mercies past, 
And hope, my God, to thee again 

This erring life may fly at last. lS 



TO MY SON.' 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recal a scene of former joy, 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 

Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 

And thou hast known a stranger's breast; 

Derision sneers upon thy birth, 

And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 

Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 

A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown ? 
Ah, no ! — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub ! pledge of youth and joy — 
A father guards thy birth, my Boy! 

Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 

Although so young thv heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee. 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy! 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. * 

You call me still your life. — Oh ! change the word- 
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigli : 

Say rather I 'm your soul; more just that name, 
For, like the soul, my love can never die. 



1 This poem is from jloore's « Letters and Journals of Lord ByrOn,„ 
and the biographer says, in a note, " The only circumstance I know, 
that bears even remotely on the subject of this poem, is the follow- 
ing : — About a year or two before the date affiled to it, Lord 
Byron wrote to his mother, from Harrow, to say, that he had latelv 
had a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young woman, whom 
he knew to have been a favourite of his late friend, Curzon, and 
who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towards 
maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. 
This, he positively assured his mother, was not the case, but believ- 
ing, as he did firmly, that the child belonged to Cnrzon, it was his 
wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, — and be 
therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness to take 
charge of it. Though such a request might well have discomposed a 
temper more mild than Mrs Byron's, she notwithstanding answered 
her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly re- 
I ceive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever 
I manner he desired. Ilowever, the infant died almost immediately, 
I and was thus spared the being a tax on the good-nature of any 
j body.* 
I * See a preceding page for another translation. — En. 



728 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine, 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings : 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

« Friendship is Love without his wings !» 

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now, bright in days divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast, 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 

« Friendship is Love without his wings !» 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings; 
But here, whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove 

« Friendship is Love without his wings !» 

Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 

But these are now decay' d ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away! delusive power! 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; 

« Unless, indeed, without thy wings. » 

Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 

Recals each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
Again, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to say 

« Friendship is love without his wings !» 

My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But oh ! 't will wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs. 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

« Friendship is Love without his wings !» 



In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No— from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

« Friendship, the power deprived of wings. » 

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting love ensures, 

Unfetter'd in its scope; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings. 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

« Friendship is Love without his wings !» 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward, 

To me no bays belong. 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings : 
Simple and young, I dare not feign ; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

« Friendship is Love without his wings !» 

December, 1806. 



FRAGMENT. 

When Lord Byron first went to Newstead on his arrival from Aber- 
deen, he planted a young oak in some part of the grounds, and had 
an idea that as it flourished, so should he. Some six or seven years 
after, on revisiting the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, 
and almost destroyed. The following opening lines are given by 
Mr Moore as a specimen of the poem he wrote on the occasion.— En. 

Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride : 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, 

Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 

A stranger has dwelt in the land of my sire, etc. etc. 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

« Sulpicia ad Cerinthum.* — Lib. Quart. 

Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? 

Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 

That I might live for love and you again: 

But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 

By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



ADDENDA. 



ON REVISITING HARROW. 

Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved 
on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words 
as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined in- 
jury, the author destroyed the frail record, before he left Harrow, 
On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it the following 
stanzas. 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 

Young Friendship's record, simply traced; 

Few were her words, but yet though few 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

Deeply she cut — but, not erased, 

The characters were still so plain 
That Friendship once return'd, and gazed 

Till Memory hail'd the words again. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join 'd her gentle name: 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more, 

That Friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 

Rut, ah ! in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 

And blotted out the line for ever! 



FRAGMENT. 

Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren^ 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above thv tufted shade! 



A LOVE-SONG. 



Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
Former favourite haunts 1 see ; 

Nov/ no more my Mary smiling 
Makes ye seem a Heaven to me. 



TO MRS ***, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN 
THE SPRING. 1 

When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 

A moment linger'd near the gate, 
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 

And bade him curse his future fate. 

But wandering on through distant climes, 
He learn'd to bear his load of grief, 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady, will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no more; 

For while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 

Escaping from temptation's snare : 

I cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there. 2 

1 This and the four following poems were first published in a mis- 
cellany that has been long out of print. — Ed. 

2 In the original this line stands, "Without a wish to enter there." 
The reading given above is from a JIS. correction by Lord Byion in 
a copy of the work now lying before me. — Ed. 



Remind me not, remind me not, 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
When all my soul was given to thee — 
Hours that may never be forgot, 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget, canst thou forget, 

When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move 
Oh, by my soul ! I see thee yet, 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast, 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd, yet raised desire ; 
And still we near and nearer prest — 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each other seek ; 
Veiling the azure orbs below — 
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smoothed on snow. 

I dreamt last night our love return'd, 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
Can stilt a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, 

And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



STANZAS 



There was a time I need not name, 
Since it will ne'er forgotten be — 

When all our feelings were the same, 
As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour, when first thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
Unknown, and thus unfelt by thine : 

None — none hath sunk so deep as this, 
To think how all that love hath flown, 

Transient as every faithless kiss — 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew 
When late 1 heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true, 

Remembrance of the days that were. 



y3o 



IJYRON'S WORKS. 



Yes, my adored ! yet most unkind, 
Though thou wilt never love again, 

To me 't is douhly sweet to find 
Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes, 't is a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine^ 

VVhate'er thou art, or e'er shalt be, 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



TO THE SAME. 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I 'would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast; 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; 

And for a while my sorrows cease, 

To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh. Lady ! blessed be that tear, 
It falls for one who cannot weep ; 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine, 

But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low 1 
Sweet lady! speak those words again ; 

Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so — 
I would not give that bosom pain. 



SONG. 

Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow -which now gladdens my heart to its core ! 

Let us drink! — Who would not?— Since through life's 

varied round 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 

I have loved ! — Who has not ? — But what heart can 

declare 
That pleasure existed while passion was there? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its 

spring, 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, — 
I had friends ! — Who has not? — But what tongue will 

avow- 
That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange; 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam; — thou never canst 

change ! 
Thou grow'st old! — Who does not? — But on earth what 

appears, 
Whose virtues like thine still increase with its years ? 



Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 

We are jealous!— Who 's not?— Thou hast no such 

alloy, 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
There we find — Do we not ? — In the flow of the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left! — Was she not ? — But the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for hope who are certain of bliss ! 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; 
We must die ! — Who shall not? — May our sins be for- 
given, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven ! 



FRAGMENT. 



The following lines form the conclusion of a poem written by 
Lord Byron, under the melancholy impression that he should soon 



And shall I here forget the scene 

Still nearest to my breast ? 
Rocks rise and rivers roll between 

The rural spot which passion blest, 
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem 

Fresh as in love's bewitching dream. 

Forget this world, my restless sprite ! 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven ; 
There must thou soon direct thy flight, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath th' Almighty's throne, 

To him address thy trembling prayer ; 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 
Father of Light ! to thee I call, 

My soul is dark within ; 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall, 

Avert the death of sin ; 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,. 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

1807. 

EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier, who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
He could not carry off, — so he's now carri-on. 

Sept. 1807. 



ADDENDA. 



7 3, 



STANZAS 

TO '*", OX LEAVING ENGLAND. 

'T is done ! and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast — 
And I must from this land be gone, 
because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest, 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'T is long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again : 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile, or welcome face : 
And even in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 

And I will seek a foreign home : 

Till I forget a false fair face 

I ne'er shall find a resting-place : 

My own dark thoughts 1 cannot shun, 

But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 
But friend or leman 1 have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go ! but wheresoe'er I flee 
There 's not an eye will weep for me, 
There 's not a kind congenial heart 
Where I can claim the meanest part : 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene, 

Of what we are, and what we 've been — 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe: 

But mine, alas! has stood the blow, 

Yet still beats on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear, loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see ; — 
And why that early love was erost, 
Thou know'st the best — I feel the most : 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too, 

With charms, perchance, as fair to view ; 



And 1 would fain have loved as well — 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'T would soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him who wanders o'er the deep, — 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 1 



LINES TO MR HODGSON. 

Falmouth Roads, June 3uih, 1S09. 

Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going ! 

Our embargo 's off at last ; 
Favourable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal 's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is fired, 
"Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the Custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking, 
Cases cracking, 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering, 

We 're impatient — push from shore. 
« Have a care — that case holds liquor — 
Stop the boat — I 'm sick — oh Lord!» 
« Sick, ma'am ! damme, you '11 be sicker 
Ere you 've been an hour on board. » 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks: 
Here entangling, 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck together close as wax. 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we 've reach'd her, lo ! the captain, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew :. 
Passengers their births are clapt in, 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
« Hey-dey ! call you that a cabin ! 

Why, 't is hardly three feet square — 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 

Who the deuce can harbour there !» 
« Who, sir? plenty ! 
Nobles twenty 

Did at once my vessel fill — » 

1 Thus corrected by his Lordship himself, in a copy of the Miscel- 
lany now before me ; the two last lines being, originally, as fol- 
lows : — 

Though wheresoe'er my bark may r.un, 
I love but thee, I love but one. — Ed. 



732 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



« Did they? Jesus 
How you squeeze us ! 
Would to God they did so still — 
Then I 'd 'scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship Lisbon Packet !» 

« Fletcher! Murray! Bob ! where are you ? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Here 's a rope's-end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses 

As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help !» — « A couplet ?» — « No, a cup 
Of warm water — » 
« What 's the matter ?« 
« Zounds ! my liver 's coming up ! 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.» 

Now at length we 're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is, 

As philosophers allow, 
Still to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things, 
Great and small things, 
Sick or well, at sea or shore; 
While we 're quaffing, 
Let 's have laughing— 
Who the devil cares for more ? — 
Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
E'en on board the Lisbon Packet ? 



EPISTLE TO , 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BJ 
CHEERFUL, AND TO « BANISH CARE.» 

Newstead Abbey, October 11, 1811. 
«Oh! banish care :» — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Benew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and « banish care ;» 
But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
When present, past, and future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone, 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere, 
By all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear, 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 



And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffer'd more than well 
'T would suit Philosophy to tell. 
I 've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant which she bore 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain, 
And /have acted well my part, 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Beturn'd the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave : — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
The babe which ought to have been mine, 
And show'd, alas! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass— I '11 whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore: 
The world befits a busy brain — 
I '11 hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
When Britain's « May is in the sere,» 
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
Suit with the sablest of the times, 
Of one, whom Love nor Pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, 
One whom, in stern Ambition's pride, 
Perchance not Blood shall turn aside, 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age, 
Him wilt thou know — and, knowing pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause. 






STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame ; 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace 
Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 

cease'.' 
We repent — we abjure— we will break from our chain ; 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou mayst. 

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, 

This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet, 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 



ADDENDA. 



7 33 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 

t Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred 
and fifty lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, 
he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour 
and imagination, it is, for the most part rather clumsily executed, 
wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr 
Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has 
attributed to Professor Forson. There are, however, some of the 
stanzas of 'The Devil's Drive' well worth preserving. n — MooRt. s 
Life, etc. 



The Devil return'd to hell by two, 

And he staid at home till five; 
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew: 
And bethought himself what next to do — 

« And,» quoth he, « I '11 take a drive. 
I walk'd in the morning, I '11 ride to-night ; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I '11 see how my favourites thrive. 



« And what shall I ride in?» quoth Lucifer, then- 

« If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 



« I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour-place; 
But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends 

By driving my favourite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

4- 

« So now for the earth! to take my chance.» — 

Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp'd across the sea, 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike-road, 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

5. 
But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way, 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well ; 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 

That it blush'd like the waves of Hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; 
« Methinks they have here little need of me!» 



But the softest note that soothed his ear 
Was the sound of a widow sighing; 



And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
Which Horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
With its hollow cheek and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying : 
And the carnage begun when resistance is done 

And the fall of the vainly flying ! 



But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white — 

And what did he there, I pray? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day. 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal ; 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
Who bid pretty well — but they cheated him, though 



The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman, and his coat : 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, 

And seized him by the throat : 
« Aha [>■> quoth he, « what have we here ? 
'T is a new barouche and an ancient peer !> 



So he set him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear, 
But be true to his club and staunch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beer ; 
« Next to seeing a lord at the council-board, 

I would rather see him here.» 



The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd to « the room » of the Commons; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 

That « the Lords » had received a summons: 
And he thought, as a « quondam Aristocrat, » 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were 

flat; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

18. 
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size — 

And Chatham, so like his friend Billy : 
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring, 
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing. 
And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, « I must go, 
For I find we have much better manners below. 
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.» 



7 34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

ODE 3, LIB. 3. 



The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control ; 
No threatening tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent: 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 



Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors then unfurl'd, 

He would unmoved, unawed behold : 
The flames of an expiring world, 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
In vast promiscuous ruin huiTd, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile: 
Still dauntless midst the 'wreck of earth he'd smile. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO RE RECITED AT THE 
CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where Fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane ; 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant conld command? 

That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath; 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 
But now 't is only shed for Fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the Northern veteran's claim, 
But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led — 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath — 't is all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While sad she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 

'T is Heaven — not man — must charm away the woe 
Which bursts when nature's feelings newly flow ; 
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
Of half its bitterness for one so dear : 



A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 
May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 



LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF 
«THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.., 

« The following; verses are written in that rambling style of metre 
which Lord Byron's admiration of Mr Coleridge's 'Christabel' led 
him to adopt; and he judged rightly, perhaps, in omitting them as 
the opening of his Poem. They are, however, too full of spirit and 
charater to be lost.»— Moohe's Life, etc. 

In the year since Jesus died for men 

Eighteen hundred years and ten, 

We were a gallant company, 

Biding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh ! but we went merrily! 

We forded the river, aud clomb the high hill, 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, 

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 

Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 

As a pillow beneath the resting head, 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope, 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creed^ — 
Some were those who counted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search, 

Nor find a mother crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills 1 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where Freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood Oppression's ills ; 

And some are in a far countree. 
And some all restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh, never ! we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily : 

Aud when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird, and a wanderer. 

'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 

And sit with me on Aero-Corinth's brow ? 



1 The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Arnaouts 
who followed me), state him to be in revolt upon the mountains, at 
the head of some of the bands common in that country in times of 
trouble. 



ADDENDA. 



7 35 



EXTRACT FROM AN UNPURLISHED POEM. 

Could I remount the river of my years 

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 

I would not trace again the stream of hours 

Between their outworn hanks of wither' d flowers, 

But bid it flow as now — until it glides 

Into the number of the nameless tides. 

What is this Death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that of which we are a part? 
For Life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay? 
The ashes of a thousand ages, spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell? 
Or have they their own language? and a sense 
Of breathless being, darken'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh Earth ! 
Where are the past? — and wherefore had they birth? 
The dead are thy inheritors— and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 



TO AUGUSTA. 

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny — 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 

The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire'si fate of yore — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

1 " Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage 



If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay ; 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armour we may learn to bear), 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks. 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

Oh that thou wert but with me !— but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show; — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

without a tempest. He was known to tbe sailors by tbe facetious 
name of ' Foul-weather Jack.' 

But though it were tempest-tost, 

Still his bark could not be lost. 
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager (in Anson's Voyage) , 
and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after, as 
commander of a similar expedition." 

93 



7 36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I did remind tliee of our own dear lake, 1 
By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Lemau's is fair; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my mem'ry make 
Ere that or tliou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister— till I look again on thee. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one} 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be : 
The passions which have torn me would have slept ; 
/ had not suffer'd, and tliou hadst not wept. 

With false ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with love, and least of all with fame ■ 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue : 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
Rut all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

And for the remnant which may be to come, 
I am content; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around, 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sister ! in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 



The lake of Newstead Abbey. 



LINES 

ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING THE PICTURE OF 
SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, TO^MRS MEE. 

When the vain triumph of th' Imperial Lord 
Whom servile Rome obey'd and yet abhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust 
That left a likeness of the brave or just, 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? — 
What spread from face to face that wondering air? — 
The thought of Brutus ! for his was not there. 
That absence proved his worth; that absence fix'd 
His mem'ry on the longing mind unmix'd — 
And more decreed his glory to endure 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey! our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less — 
If he, that vain Old Man ! whom truth admits 
Heir to his Father's monarchy — and wits ; 
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
Could with thy gentle image bear to part, 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief 
To gaze on Beauty's Band without its Chief. 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts ! 

What can his vaulted gall'ry now disclose? 
A garden with all flowers, except the Rose; 
A fount, that only wants its living stream ; 
A night with ev'ry star, save Dian's beam ! 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 
Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
With all that virtue asks of homage thine, 
The symmetry of youth, the grace of mien, 
The eye that gladdens and the brow serene, 
The glossy darkness of that clust'ring hair 
Which shades yet shows that forehead more than fair, 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell that will not let our looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a Dotard's sight ; 
And these must wait till every charm be gone 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none ! 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye, 
In envious dimness, pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 

In this beloved marble view, 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
What Nature could, but would not, do, 

And Beauty and Canova can! 
Reyond imagination's power, 

Beyond the bard's defeated art, 
With immortality her dower, 

Rehold the Helen of the heart ! 



ADDENDA. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S 
FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less — 
This is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 
Were it not easy, Sir, and is 't not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 

Omnipotent by Mercy's means ? for thus 
Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, 

A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Relshazzar ! from the banquet turn. 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
Behold! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die? 

Go! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 

More than thy very diadem, 
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 

Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 

And learn, like better men, to die ! 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd, 

And ever light of word and worth, 
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



STANZAS. 



These lines are extracted from one of bis Lordship's Journals, 
where we find appended the following note: — « I composed these 
stanzas (except the fourth) on the road from Florence to Pisa.n — 
Ed. 

On, talk not to me of a name great in story! 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 



Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear One discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly 1 sought thee, there only I found thee; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee j 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

You have ask'd for a verse — the request, 
In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

Were I now as I was, I had sung 

What Lawrence had pencill'd so well; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

I am ashes where once I was fire, 
And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 

What I loved I now merely admire, 
And my heart is as grey as my head. 

My life is not dated by years ; 

There are moments which act as a plough ; 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 

To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain.' 



EPITAPH. 

« r have just escaped from a physician and a fever. The English 
consul forced a physician upon me. In this state I made my epitaph 
—take it."— Letter to Mr Hodgson, Oct. 3, 1810, in Moose's Life, etc. 



Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
But Romanelli was so stout, 
He beat all three — and blew it out. 

The following was Lady Blessington's answer: — 

"When I ask'd for a Terse, pray believe, 
'T was not vanity urged the desire ; 

For no more can my mirror deceive, 
And no more; can I poets inspire. 

Time has touch'd with rude fingers my brow, 
And the roses have tied from my cheek ; 

Then it surely w.^re folly, if now 

I the praise due to beauty should seek. 

But as pilgrims who visit the shrine 
Of some saint, bear a relic away, 

I sought a memorial of thine, 
As a treasure when distant I stray. 

Oh ! say not lhat lyre is unstrung, 

Whose cords can such rapture bestow ; 

Or that mute is that magical tongue, 
From whence music and poetry flow. 

And though sorrow, ere yet youth has fled, 
May have alter'd the locks' jetty hue, 

The bays that encircle the head 
Hide the ravisher's marks from our view. 



7 38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SPORTIVE EPISTLES TO MR J. MURRAY. 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
Patron and. publisher of rhymes, 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Murray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all— and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

Upon thy table's baize so green 

The last new Quarterly is seen, 

But where is thy new Magazine, 

My Murray ? 

Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine — 
The « Art of Cookery, » and mine, 
My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist, 
And then thou hast the « Navy List,» 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without the « Board of Longitude,» 
Although this narrow paper would, 
My Murray. 



TO THE SAME. 



Venice, January Sth, 1818. 
My dear Mr Murray, 
You 're in a damn'd hurry 

To set up this ultimate Canto ;> 
But (if they don't rob us) 
You '11 see Mr Hobhouse 

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

2. 
For the Journal you hint of, 
As ready to print off, 

No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I have writ off 
The devil a bit of 

Our « Beppo;» — when copied, I '11 send it. 

4- 

Then you 've * * *'s Tour, — 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
For the pompous rascallion, 
Who don't speak Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work. 



You can make any loss up 
With « Spence » and his gossip, 

A work which must surely succeed ; 

1 The Fourth and last Canto of Childe Harold, which his Lordship 
writes of here.— u Set up » is a technical term of printers, meaning, 
to put matter in type.— Ed. 



Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
With the new « Fytte» of « Whistlecraft,> 
Must make people purchase and read. 



Then you 've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on, 

To serve with a Muscovite master, 
And help him to polish 
A nation so owlish, 

They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 



For the man, «poor and shrewd,* l 
With whom you 'd conclude 

A compact without more delay, 
Perhaps some such pen is 
Still extant in Venice ; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay. 



TO THE SAME. 



For Orford and for Waldegrave 2 
You give much more than me you gave : 
Which is not fairly to behave, 
My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, 't is said, 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes, 
Verse hath a better sale than prose — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if you will, /sha'n't be shamm'd, 
And if you won't, you may be damn'd, 
My Murray. 



TO THE SAME. 

To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
Have publish'd « Anjou's Margaret,» 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry 

(At least it has not been as yet) ; 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em, 
Without remorse you set up « Ilderim ;» 

So mind you don't get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would be very treacherous — very, 

And get me into such a scrape ! 

1 « Vide your letter. » 

2 The work here indicated is, Memoirs 0/ the last Ten Years of the 
Reign of George II, by the celebrated Horace Walpole, Earl of Or- 
ford. Earl Waldegrave was governor of George the Third, during 
his minority. — The copyright of the volumes in question had been, 
about this time, purchased by Mr Murray, at a very liberal price.— 



ADDENDA. 



7 3 9 



For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
All in my little hoat, against a Galley; 
And should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 
Have next to comhat with the female Knight. 1 



RHYMING LETTER, 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MR MURRAY. 

Dr Polidori had composed a tragedy, which he wished Mr Murray 
to publish. It is presumable that, not willing to accept the Doctor's 
production, though somewhat averse to give him a positive refusal, 
Mr M. had in the meantime consulted Lord Byron, who thus writes 
to the latter gentleman, under date of 21st of August, 1S17: — « You 
wanted a 'civil and delicate declension' of the medical tragedy : 
takeit.n His Lordship then continues, in the following ludicrous 
strain. — Ed. 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Which is a good one in its way, — 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 

I like your moral and machinery ; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ! 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see : 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
I had a heavy loss by « Manuel, » — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And S * *, with his « Orestes,» 
(Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
Has lain so very long on hand 
That I despair of all demand. 
I *ve advertised, but see my books, 
Or only watch my shopman's looks; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There 's Byron too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
A sort of — it 's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama ; 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he 's lost his wits at Venice. 

In short, sir, what with one and t' other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the street so thunder ! 
My room 's so full — we 've Gifford here 
B.eading MS., with Hookham Frere, 

1 Galley— Knight. The Noble Poet here puns on certain proper 
names. — Ed, 



Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what but, to resume : 

As I was saying, sir, the room — 

The room 's so full of wits and bards, 

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 

And others, neither bards nor wits : — 

My humble tenement admits 

All persons in the dress of gent., 

From Mr Hammond to Dog Dent. 

A party dines with me to-day, 
AH clever men, who make their way; 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry: 
They 're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France ! 



Thus run our time and tongues away. — 
But, to return, sir, to your play: 
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, 
Unless 't were acted by O'Neill. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I 'm almost dead, and always dizzy; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

John Murray. 



POETICAL FRAGMENTS, 

EXTRACTED FROM LETTERS ADDRESSED, AT VARIOUS 
TIMES, TO MR THOMAS MOORE. 



The following lines were written by his Lordship to Mr Moore, on 
the evening before their visit to Mr Leigh Hunt, then confined in 
Horsemonger-lane prison (not that of Cold Bath Fields, as errone- 
ously stated byMrM.), May 19, 1819. — Ed. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag: 

But now to my letter — to yours 't is an answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon; — 
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace! 
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
And you '11 be Catullus, the R 1 Mamurra. 



74° 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



June, 1814. 
« What say /?» — not a syllable further in prose; 
I 'm your man « of all measures," dear Tom, — so, here 

goes ! 
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood, 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, 
And Southey's last Paean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
That « Felo de se » who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
Walk'd out of his depth, and was lost in a calm sea, 
Singing « Glory to God » in a spick and span stanza, 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man 

saw. 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Piusses, — 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, — 
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces, 

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 

Jersey, 
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 



III. 

« I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the 'sword 
wearing out the scabiwrd,' though I have but jukt turned the corner 
of twenty-nine." 

So we '11 go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright : 
For the sword out-wears its sheath, 

And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 

And Love itself have rest. 
Though the night was made for loving, 

And the day returns too soon, 
Yet we '11 go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 

IV. 

What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore? 
What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now, 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cooing now, 

Which, Thomas Moore ? 

But the Carnival 's coming, 
Oh Thomas Moore ! 



The Carnival 's coming, 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
Masking and humming, 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming- 
Oh Thomas Moore ! 



« Here follow some versicles which I made one sleepless night. »- 
Letter to Mr Moore. 

I read the « Christabel ;» 

Very well : 
I read the « Missionary;" 

Pretty — very : 
I tried at « Ilderim ;» 

Ahem! 
I read a sheet of « Margaret of Anjou;* 

Can you ? 
I turn'd a page of * *'s « Waterloo;" 

Pooh! pooh! 
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white «RylstoneDoe; 

Ilillo! 
Etc. etc. etc. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 



When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent 

(I hope I am not violent), 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

2. 

And since not even our Rogers' praise 
To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
Why would they let him print his lays? 



To me, divine Apollo, grant— O! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, — 
I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

6. 
And thus to furnish decent lining, 
My own and others' bays I'm twining— 
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

I lay my branch of laurel down, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown 
Let every other bring his own. 

Lord Thurlotv's lines to Mr Rogers. 



I lay my branch of laurel down. 

Thou « lay thy branch of laurel down !» 
Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow ; 

And, were it lawfully thine own, 
Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 



ADDENDA. 



74r 



Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 
Or send it back to Doctor Donne — 

Were Justice done to both, I trow, 
He 'd have but little, and thou — none. 



Then thus to form Jpollo's crown. 

A crown ! why twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town, 

Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, 
They '11 tell you Phoebus gave his crown, 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 



Let every other bring his own. 

When coals to Newcastle are carried, 

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, 
From his spouse when * * 's unmarried, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, 

A FARCICAL EPIGRAM. 

Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce — 
The poet's fame grows brittle : 

We knew before 

That Little 's Moore, 
But now 't is Moore that 's little. 

Sept. 14, t8i i . 



PARAPHRASE FROM THE OPENING LINES OF 
THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. 

u I am just come from an expedition through the Bosphorus to the 
Black Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, up which last I scrambled 
at as great a risk as ever the Argonauts escaped in their hoy. Yon 
remember the beginning of the nurse's dole in the Medea, of which 
I beg you to take the following translation, done on the summit." — 
Letter to Mr Henry Drury, June 17, 1810. 

Oh how I wish that an embargo 

Had kept in port the good ship Argo! 

Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 

Had never pass'd the Azure rocks : 

But now I fear her trip will be a 

Damn'd business, for my Miss Medea, etc, etc. 



FRAGMENT OF A POEM 

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. — 1816. 

And thou wert sad — yet was I not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick — and yet I was not near. 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was nor, and pain and sorrow here. 
And is it thus 1— It is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so :— etc. etc. 



SONG OF THE LUDDITES. 1 

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or line free — 
And down with all kings but King Ludd ! 

When the web that we weave is complete, 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding-sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet, 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

Though black as his heart its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 

Yet this is the dew 

Which the tree shall renew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd ! 



ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. 

March 27, 181 5. 
Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure, 
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, 
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, 
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. 



LORD BYRON'S IDEA OF POLITICS. 

The world is a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the asses who pull, 

Each tugs it a different way, — 

And the greatest of all is John Bull ! 



STANZAS, 

WRITTEN WHEN ABOUT TO JOIN THE ITALIAN CARBONARI 

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 
Let him combat for that of his neighbours ; 

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
And get knock'd on the head for his labours. 

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 

And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can, 

And, if not shot or hang'd, you '11 get knighted. 



LINES 

ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO HOPPNER. 2 

His father's sense, his mother's grace 
In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 

With still (to keep him in good case) 
The health and appetite of Rizzo. 

• u There 's an amiable chanson for you ! — all impromptu. I have 
written it principally to shock your neighbour ****, who is all clergy 
and lovaltv— mirth and innocence — milk and water." — Letter from 
Lord Byron to Mr Moore. 

2 u These lines are in no other respect remarkable, than that they 
were thought worthy of being metrically translated into no less than 
ten different languages ; namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in Ve- 
netian dialect), German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, Hebrew, Arme- 
nian, and Samaritan. The original lines, with the different versions 
above mentioned, were printed, in a small neat volume, in the semi- 
nary of Padua."— Moore's Life. 



742 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO JESSY. 1 

There is a mystic thread of life 

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, 

That destiny's relentless knife 
At once must sever both or none. 

There is a form, on which these eyes 
Have often gazed with fond delight — 

By day that form their joy supplies, 

And dreams restore it through the night. 

There is a voice, whose tones inspire 

Such thrills of rapture through my breast — 

I would not bear a seraph choir, 
Unless that voice could join the rest. 

There is a face, whose blushes tell 
Affection's tale upon the cheek — 

But pallid at one fond farewell, 

Proclaims more love than words can speak. 

There is a lip, which mine hath prest, 

And none had ever prest before, 
It vow'd to make me sweetly blest, 

And mine — mine only prest it more. 

There is a bosom — all my own — 
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head ; 

A mouth which smiles on me alone, 

An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. 

There are two hearts, whose movements thrill 

In unison so closely sweet, 
That, pulse to pulse responsive still, 

They both must heave, or cease to beat. 

There are two souls, whose equal flow 
In gentle streams so calmly run, 

That when they part — they part! — ah, no ! 
They cannot part — those souls are one. 



ENDORSEMENT FOR THE DEED OF SEPARA- 
TION FROM LADY BYRON, 

IN THE APRIL OF l8l6. 

A year ago you swore, fond she! 

To love, to honour, and so forth : 
Such was the vow you pledged to me, 

And here 's exactly what 't is worth. 



TO MR MOORE, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS LORDSHIP'S MARRIAGE. 2 

January 2, 1820. 
Here 's a happy new year ! but with reason 

I beg you '11 permit me to say — 
Wish me many returns of the season, 
But as few as you please of the day. 

1 The above stanzas are said to have been addressed by Lord By- 
ron to his Lady, a few months before their separation. 

2 This quatrain is extracted from a letter of Lord Byron to Mr T. 
Moore, bearing the above date. The lines are prefaced by those 
which follow, taken from Cowpers « John Gilpin :» — 

To-day it is my wedding-day. 

And all the folks would stare 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware. Ed. 



TO PENELOPE.' 

January 2, 1821. 
This day, of all our days, has done 

Its worst for me and you : — 
'T is just six years since we were one, 

And five since we were two. 



THE CHARITY BALL. 

Written December 10, 1820, on seeing the following paragraph in a 
newspaper : — u Lady Byron is this year the lady-patroness at the 
annual charity ball given at the town-hall at Hinckley, Leicester- 
shire, and Sir G. Crewe, Bart, the principal steward." 

What matter the pangs of a husband and father, 
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 

So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, 
And the saint patronizes her « charity ball !» 

What matters — a heart, which though faulty was feeling, 

Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 
As the saint keeps her charity back for « the ball!» 



JOHN KEATS. 

In a letter to Mr Murray, date of July 3oth, 1821, Lord Byron thus 
addresses that gentleman : — u Are you aware that Shelley has writ- 
ten an Elegy on John Keats?" — entitled Adonais — « and accuses the 
Quarterly Review of killing him.n Then come the following lines, 
a parody on « Who killed poor Cock Robin ;» by such drollery his 
Lordship no doubt meant to ridicule this idea of his friend, which, 
indeed, he had already more gravely disputed, in a le<ter to Shelley 
himself. See Mr Moore's Life, etc.— Ed. 

« Who kill'd John Keats ?» 

« I,» says the Quarterly, 

So savage and Tartarly ; 
« 'T was one of my feats.» 
« Who shot the arrow ? — 

The poet-priest Milman 

(So ready to kill man), 
Or Southey or Barrow ?» 



EPITAPHS. 

FOR WILLIAM PITT. 

With death doom'd to grapple, 
Beneath this cold slab, he 

Who lied in the Chapel, 
Now lies in the Abbey. 

ON LORD CASTLEREAGH. 

Posterity will ne'er survey 
A nobler grave than this ! 

Here lie the bones of Castlereagh: 
Stop, traveller, and . 



ON SOME BROTHER POETS. 

What news, what news ? Queen Oreaca, 
What news of scribblers five ? 

S — -, W , C , L— d, and L— e, 

All damn'd, though yet alive ! 

Another version of this epigram runs thus : — 

How strangely Time his course has run, 

Since first I pair'd with you ; 

Six years ago we made but one, 

Now five have made us two. 



ADDENDA. 



743 



IMPROMPTU. 1 

Beneath ** ¥ 's eyes 

The reclaim'd Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil 

But if the new Eve 

For an apple should grieve, 
What mortal would not play the Devil 



RHYMES. 2 

Pretty Miss Jacqueline 
Had a nose aquiline ; 
And would assert rude 
Things of Miss Gertrude : 
While Mr Marmion 
Led a great army on, 
Making Kehama look 
Like a fierce Mamaluke. 



NOBLE AUTHORS. 

In these our times, with daily wonders big, 

A letter'd peer is like a letter'd pig : 

Both know their alphabet; but who from thence 

Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense ? 

Still less that such should woo the graceful Nine : 

Parnassus was not made for lords and swine ! 3 



PARODY. 

ON READING DR BUSBYS MONOLOGUE FOR THE OPENING 
OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, BEGINNING — 

When energizing objects men pursue, 
What are the prodigies they cannot do ? 
A magic Edifice you here survey, 
Shot from the ruins of the other day ! 

BYRON TRAVESTIED THE WHOLE, COMMENCING THUS — 

« When energizing objects men pursue, » 

The Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows ivho ! 

A modest Monologue « you here survey, » 

Hiss' d from the Theatre « the other day.» 



LINES. 

ON READING THE F0LLOWING~IN AN ALBUM AT ATHENS- 

Fair Albion smiling sees her son depart, 

To trace the birth and nursery of art ; 

Noble his object, glorious is his aim, 

He comes to Athens, and he — writes his name ! 

HIS LORDSHIP IMMEDIATELY WROTE BENEATH THEM— 

This modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than his verse. 



ON SIR JOHN CARR, THE TRAVELLER. 

Ye who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Sights, saints, antiques, arts, anecdotes, and war, 
Go, hie ye hence to Paternoster-row,— 
Are they not written in the boke of Carr ? 
Green Erin's Knight, and Europe's wandering star ! 
Then listen, readers, to the Man of Ink, 
Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar- 
All these are coop'd within one Quarto's brink, 
This borrow, steal (don't buy), and tell us what you 
think.4 

ON AN OLD LADY. 5 
In Nottingham county there lives, at Swan Green, 
As curst an old lady as ever was seen ; 
And when she does die, which I hope will be soon, 
She firmly believes she will go to the moon ! 

1 u This was called forth by Lady 's expressing her intention 

of taking the villa called ' II Paradise' near Genoa. The Genoese 
wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himself. Taking it 
into their heads that this villa had been fixed on for his own resid- 
ence, they said, 'II Diavolo e ancora entrato in Paradise'" — 3Ioore, 
Life. 

2 Written on the margin of a copy of « English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers, * opposite the passage where Mr Campbell and other poets 
are mentioned, nine years after that poem was published. 

3 These lines, intended to have been inserted in « English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," immediately following the passage ending 
with « Ah', who would take their titles with their rhymes?" were 
omitted at the request of the friend who superintended the progress 
of that poem through the press. 

4 This stanza original!; formed a part of « Childe Haiold's Pil- 
grimage," but was, with some others of a personal nature, struck 
out previous to the publication of that poem. 

5 These lines are said to have been written by Byron at ten years 
of age, and, as such, are not a little remarkable, as exhibiting his 



TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 

Adieu to sweet Mary for ever ! 

From her I must quickly depart : 
Though the fates us from each other sever, 

Still her image shall dwell in my heart. 

The flame that within my breast burns 
Is unlike what in lovers' hearts glows ; 

The love which for Mary I feel 
Is far purer than Cupid bestows. 

I wish not your peace to disturb, 

1 wish not your joys to molest ; 
Mistake not my passion for love, 

'T is your friendship alone I request. 

Not ten thousand lovers could feel 
The friendship my bosom contains ; 

It will ever within my heart dwell, 

While the warm blood flows through my veins. 

May the Ruler of Heaven look down, 

And my Mary from evil defend ! 
May she ne'er know adversity's frown ! 

May her happiness ne'er have an end ! 

Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu ! 

Farewell! I with anguish repeat; 
Forever I '11 think upon you, 

While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 

early talent for rhyming. The subject of them, an old dame, who, 
while on a visit to his mother, had drawn forth the satirical powers 
of the infantine poet by some expression lhat very much affronted 
him, entertained some curious notions respecting the souL which, 
she imagined, took its flight to the moon after death. 

94 



744 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VERSES. 

Tbe Lady to whom the following bitter lines refer having called 
at Lord Byron's when he was absent, found a copy of » The Caliph 
Vathek ■ upon his Lordship's table, and left the words « Remember 
nu;!* written on one of its blank leaves ; on seeing them, Lord B. 
wrote these verses underneath. See Medwin's Conversations, etc. — 
Ed. 

Remember thee ! remember thee ! 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream, 
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 

Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not. 

Thy husband too shall think of thee : 
By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

Thou false to him, thou jiend to me ! 



FAME, WISDOM, LOVE, AND POWER. 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
And health and youth possess'd me ; 

My goblets blush'd from every vine, 
And lovely forms caress'd me. 

I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour, 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field by art 

And spells is won from harming ; 

But that which coils around the heart, 
Oh ! who hath power of charming 1 

It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor wisdom's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



LINES 

ADAPTED TO AN INDIAN AIR. 

Oh ! my lonely, lonely, lonely pillow ! 
Where is my lover, where is my lover? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover 

Far, far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely, lonely, lonely pillow ! 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
How the long night flags carelessly and slowly, 

And my head droops over thee like the willow ! 

Oh thou my sad and solitary pillow, 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking, 

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow ! 



Then, if thou wilt no more, my lonely pillow ! 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy but to behold him : 

Ah my lone bosom ! Oh my lonely pillow ! 

Pisa, Feb. I, 18: 



ENIGMAS. 

ON THE LETTER H. 

'T was whisper'd in heaven, 't was mutter'd in hell, 

And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell : 

On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, 

And the depths of the ocean its presence confest. 

'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, 

Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 

'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, 

Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death ; 

It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, 

Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth: 

Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, 

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! 

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 

Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd : 

'T will not soften the heart, and, though deaf to the ear, 

'T will make it acutely and instantly hear. 

But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower — 

Oh ! breathe on it softly — it dies in an hour ! 

ON THE LETTER I. 
(written ik a lady's sceap-book. ) 

I am not in youth, nor in manhood, nor age, 

But in infancy ever am known ; 
I m a stranger alike to the fool and the sage, 
And though I 'm distinguish'd in history's page, 

I always am greatest alone. 

I am not in earth, nor the sun, nor the moon, 

You may search all the sky — I 'm not there ; 
In the morning and evening — though not in the noon, 
You may plainly perceive me — for, like a balloon, 
I am midway suspended in air. 

I am always in riches, and yet I am told 

Wealth ne'er did my presence desire; 
I dwell with the miser, but not with his gold, 
And sometimes I stand in his chimney so cold, 

Though I serve as a part of the fire. 

1 often am met io political life — 

In my absence no kingdom can be ; 
And they say there can neither be friendship nor strife, 
No one can live single, no one take a wife, 

Without interfering with me. 

My brethren are many, and of my whole race 

Not one is more slender and tall j 
And though not the eldest, I hold the first place, 
And even in dishonour, despair, and disgrace, 

I boldly appear 'mong them all. 

Though disease may possess me, and sickness and pain, 

I am never in sorrow or gloom ; 
Though in wit and in wisdom I equally reign, 
1 'm the heart of all sin, and have long lived in vain, 

Yet I ne'er shall be found in the tomb. 



ADDENDA. 



745 



EPIGRAMS. 

FROM MARTIAL. 

Pierios vatis Theodori flamma Penates, 
Abstulit : hoc Musis, hoc tibi, Phoebe, placet? 
O scelus, magnum facinus, crimenque deorum, 
Non arsit pariter quod domus et dominus. 

Lib. xi, Epig. 94. 
The Laureate's house hath been on fire ; the Nine 
All smiling saw that pleasant bonfire shine. 
But, cruel fate, Oh damnable disaster ! 
The house— the house is burnt, and not the master ! 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. 
If for silver, or for gold, 

You could melt ten thousand pimples 

Into half-a-dozen dimples, 
Then your face we might behold, 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly : 

Yet, even then, 't would be d d ugly. 

ANOTHER. 

£gle, beauty and poet, has two little crimes- 
She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes. 

• 
TO MR HOBHOTJSE. 

« Mors janua vitae.n 

Would you get to the house through the true gate, 

Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went, 
Let Parliament send you to Newgate — 

And Newgate will send you to— Parliament. 

PAINE AND COBBETT. 

In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 

Will. Cobbett has done well : 
You visit him on earth again, 

He '11 visit you in hell — 

Or, 
You come to him on earth again, 

He 'Jl go with you to hell. 

ON THE BRASIERS' ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. 1 

The Brasiers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
An address, and present it themselves all in brass — 
A superfluous pageant !— for, by the Lord Harry, 
They '11 find where they 're going much more than they 



ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 2 

Through life's road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty. 
What have these years left to me ? 
Nothing— except thirty-three. 

1 Of the above epigram, which is in a letter to Mr Thomas Moore, 
Lord Byron says, « There 's an ode for you, is it not ?— worthy 

Of****, the grand metaquizzical poet, 
A man of vast merit, though few people know it ; 
The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri) 
I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry. » 

2 These lines are extracted from Lord Byron's diary, date of 21st 
January, 1821 ; where they are thus introduced : — u To-morrow is 
my birth-day — that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight, i. c. 
in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty and three years of 
age ! ! ! — and I go to bed with a heaviness of heart, at having lived 
so long, and to so little purpose." 



TO MEMORY. 

WRITTEN WREN AWARE THAT THE OBJECT OF HIS CHOICI 
WAS ABOUT TO WED ANOTHER. 

Oh Memory, torture me no more, 

The present 's all o'ercast ; 
My hopes of future bliss are o'er, 

In mercy veil the past. 
Why bring those images to view 

I henceforth must resign? 
Ah ! why those happy hours renew 

That never can be mine ? 
Past pleasure doubles present pain, 

To sorrow adds regret : 
Regret and hope are both in vain ; 

I ask but to — foreet. 



LINES 

FOUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CHAMOUNI. 

How many number'd are, how few agreed, 

In age, or clime, or character, or creed ' 

Here wandering Genius leaves a deathless name, 

And Folly writes — for others do the same. 

Italian treachery, and English pride, 

Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side ! 

The hardy Russian hails congenial snow ; 

The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow. 

Knew men the objects of this varied crew, 

To stare how many, and to feel how few ! 

Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school; 

And travelling problems, that admire by rule. 

The timorous poet woos his modest muse, 

And thanks his stars he 's safe from all reviews. 

The pedant drags from out his motley store 

A line some hundred hills have heard before. 

Here critics too (for where 's the happy spot 

So blest by nature as to have them not?) 

Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase 

Of foolish wonder, or of honest praise ; 

Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host, 

Some direful failure, or some empty boast. 

Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men, 

If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen. 

Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame, 

Join'd in one act of wonder when they came : 

Here beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock, 

The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block, 

Sees the white giant, in his robe of light, 

Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height ; 

And stops, while hastening to the blest remains 

And calmer beauties of the classic plains. 

And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek 

Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek, 

Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky, 

And views and wonders on his way to die. - 

But he, the author of these idle lines, 
What passion leads him, and what tie confines ? 
For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, 
What joy elates him, and what grief consumes ? 
Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, 
What matters? — bootless were his story told. 
Some praise at least one act of sense may claim ; 
He wrote these verses, but he hid his name. 



746 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



STANZAS 

TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. 

Be it so! — we part for ever! 
Let the past as nothing be : 
Had I only loved thee, never 
Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 

Had I loved, and thus been slighted, 
That I better could have borne : 
Love is quell'd — when unrequited — 
By the rising pulse of scorn. 

Pride may cool what passion heated, 
Time will tame the wayward will ; 
But the heart in friendship cheated 
Throbs with woe's most maddening thrill. 

Had I loved— I now might hate thee, 
In that hatred solace seek, 
Might exult to execrate thee, 
And, in words, my vengeance wreak. 

But there is a silent sorrow 
Which can find no vent in speech, 
Which disdains relief to borrow 
From the heights that song can reach. 

Like a clankless chain enthralling — 
Like the sleepless dreams that mock — 
Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
From the surf-surrounded rock — 

Such the cold and sickening feeling 
Thou hast caused this heart to know; 
Stabb'd the deeper by concealing 
From the world its bitter woe! 

Once it fondly, proudly, deem'd thee 
All that fancy's self could paint; 
Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee 
As its idol and its saint! 

More than woman thou wast to me - y 
Not as man I look'd on thee : 
Why, like woman, then undo me? 
Why heap man's worst curse on me? 

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 
Friendship's smile and woman's art, 
And, in borrcw'd beauty blooming, 
Trifling with a trusting heart ? 

By that eye which once could glisten 
With opposing glance to rne ; 
By that ear, which once could listen 
To each tale I told to thee ; 

By that lip, its smile bestowing, 
Which could soften sorrow's gush ; 
By that cheek, once brightly glowing 
With pure friendship's well-feign'd blush ; 

By all those false charms united, 
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 
And, without compunction, blighted 
What thou wouldst not kindly kill ! 

Yet I curse thee not — in sadness — 
Still I feel how dear thou wert ; 



Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness — 
Doom thee to thy just desert ! 

Live ! and when my life is over, 
Should thine own be lengthen'd long, 
Thou mayst then too late discover, 
By thy feelings, all my wrong! 

When thy beauties all are faded — 
When thy flatterers fawn no more — 
Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
Some regardless reptile's store — 

Ere that hour — false syren ! hear me!— 
Thou mayst feel what I do now, 
While my spirit, hovering near thee, 
Whispers friendship's broken vow ! 

But — 't is useless to upbraid thee 
With thy past or present state; — 
What thou wast — my fancy made thee 
What thou art — 1 know too late! 



LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKERESS. 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 

That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 

And though we ne'er may meet again, 

Remembrance will thy form retain ; 

1 would not say « I love,» but still 

My senses struggle with my will. 

In vain to drive thee from my breast, 

My thoughts are more and more repress'd ; 

In vain I check the rising sighs, 

Another to the last replies : 

Perhaps this is not love, but yet 

Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke ? 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke. 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels ; 

Deceit the guilty lips impart, 

And hush the mandates of the heart ; 

But souls' interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 

No spirit from within reproved us, 

Say rather « 't was the spirit moved us» — 

Though what they utter'd I repress, 

Yet I conceive thou 'It partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself at least I '11 say, 

Thy form appears through night, through day: 

Awake, with it my fancy teems, — 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams, — 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight, 

Which make me wish for endless night, 

Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps await, 



ADDENDA. 



747 



Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
Thine image I can ne'er forget. 
Alas ! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
« May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker 
That anguish never can o'ertake her, 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But blessed be aye her heart's partaker. 
Oh may the happy mortal, fated 
To be by dearest ties related, 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover ' 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 't is to feel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul -with vain regret 
Of him, — who never can forget. » 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey, 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away. 

The song they demanded in vain— it lay still 
In our souls, as the wind that hath died on the hill ; 
They call'd for the harp— but our blood they shall spill 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their 
skill. 

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree, 
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be; 
Our hands may be fetter'd— our tears still are free 
For our God and our glory — and Sion ! oh thee! 



They say that Hope is happiness; 

But genuine Love must prize the past, 
And mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless 

They rose the first, they set the last; 

And all that mem'ry loves the most 
Was once our only hope to be, 

And all that hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all: 

The future cheats us from afar, 
Nor can we be what we recal, 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 1 



1 Mr Nathan, the composer of the music for the Hehrew Melo- 
dies, relates the following anecdote relative to these lines: — « Hav- 
ing been officiously taken up by a person who arrogated to himself 
some self-importance in criticism, and who made an observation 
upon their demerits, Lord Byron quaintly observed, ' They were 
written in haste, and they shall perish in the same manner!' and 
immediately consigned them to the flames. As my music adapted 
to them, however, did not share the same fate, and having a con- 
trary opinion of any thing that might fall from (he pen of his lord- 
ship, I treasured them up, and on a subsequent interview with his 
lordship, I accused him of having committed suicide in making so 
valuable a burnt-offering: to which he smilingly replied, ' The act 



ADIEU TO MALTA. 

Adieu the joys of La Valette ; 

Adieu sirocco, sun, and sweat; 

Adieu thou palace, rarely enter'd; 

Adieu ye mansions, where 1 've ventured; 

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs — 

How surely he wlio mounts them swears! 

Adieu ye merchants, often failing; 

Adieu thou mob, for ever railing ; 

Adieu ye packets without letters ; 

Adieu ye fools, who ape your betters; 

Adieu thou damn'dest quarantine, 

That gave me fever and the spleen ; 

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs: 

Adieu his excellency's dancers; 

Adieu to Peter, whom no fault 's in, 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; 

Adieu ye females, fraught with graces ; 

Adieu red coats, and redder faces; 

Adieu the supercilious air 

Of all that strut en militaire. 

I go — but God knows where or why — 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky ; 

To things, the honest truth to say, 

As bad, but in a different way : — 

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 

Triumphant sons of truest blue. 

While either Adriatic shore, 

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, 

And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 

Proclaim you war and women's winners. 

Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is, 
And take my rhyme, because 't is gratis : 
And now I 've got to Mrs Fraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her; 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line or two were no hard matter, 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter : 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine ; 
With lively air and open heart, 
And fashion's ease without its art, 
Her hours can gaily glide along, 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. 

And now, oh Malta! since thou 'st got us, 
Thou little military hot-house! 
I '11 not offend with words uncivil, 
And wish thee rudely at the devil — 
But only stare from out my casement, 
And ask — for what is such a place meant? 
Then, in my solitary nook, 
Beturn to scribbling, or a book; 
Or take my physic, while I 'm able, 
Two spoonfuls hourly, by this label ; 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, 
And bless my stars I 've got a fever. 



seems to in/lame you ; come, Nathan, since you are displeased with 
the sacrifice, I give them to you as a peace-offcnncj ; use them as you 
may deem proper.' » 

[ The first of the two foregoing pieces seems to be an inferior ver- 
sion of the Hebrew Melody begiuning, u We sat down and wept 
by the waters ;» — both poems being paraphrases of one of the 
Psalms. ]— Ed. 



7 48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SONG. 

AIR— « THE VICAR AND MOSES. » 

Do you know Doctor Nott, 1 

With a crook in his lot, 
Who several years since tried to dish up 

A neat Codicil 

To the Princess's Will, 
That made Doctor Nott not a Bishop? 

So the Doctor being found 

A little unsound 
In his doctrine, at least as a teacher, 

And kick'd from one stool 

As a knave and a fool, 
Has mounted another as preacher ! 

In that gown, like a skin 

With no lion within, 
He still for the bench would be driving, 

And roareth away, 

A true Vicar of Bray, 
Except that his bray lost his living. 

« 'Gainst free-thinkers, » he roars, 

« You should all shut your doors, 
Or be bound in the Devil's indentures." 

And here I agree, 

For who ever would be 
A guest where old Simony enters? 

Let the Priest who beguiled 

His Sovereign's child 
To his own dirty views of promotion, 

Wear the sheep's clothing still 

Among flocks to his will, 
And dishonour the cause of devotion. 

The Altar and Throne 

Are in peril alone 
From such as yourself, who would render 

The Altar itself 

A shop let for pelf, 
And pray God to pay his defender. 

But Doctor, one word, 

Which perhaps you have heard — 
« They should never throw stones -who have windows 

Of glass » to be broken : 

And by that same token, 
As a sinner, you can't care what sin does. 

But perhaps you do well : 

Your own windows, they tell, 
Have long ago suffer'd erasure ; 

Not a fragment remains 

Of your character's panes, 
Since the Regent refused you a glazier. 

Though your visions of lawn 

Have all been withdrawn, 
And you miss'd your bold stroke for a mitre, 

In a very snug way 

You may still preach and pray, 
And from bishop sink into backbiter ! 

1 Dr Nott, Tutor to the late Princess Cbarlotte of Wales, who 
preached a Sermon denouncing Lord Byron's « Cain u as a blasphe- 
mous production. 



STANZAS IN CHILDE HAROLD, 

AS ORIGINALLY WRITTEN. 

[ The following stanzas were altered by the noble author upon the 
suggestion of Mr Dallas, who gives the following explanation re- 
specting them in his Correspondence of Lord Byron : — u As the genius 
of Lord Byron has placed his fame so far above the possibility of 
being injured by the production of an occasional inferior stanza, and 
as the succeeding glories of the Peninsular campaigns have com- 
pletely thrown into shade the events alluded to, there can be no 
impropriety in now publishing, as literary curiosities, the three 
stanzas which were then properly omitted. — The following are the 
six stanzas as they originally stood. Those appearing below, as 24, 
26, 29, appeared in the poem, in an altered state, numbered there 
as 24, 25, 26, of the first canto. The stanzas marked below 2 5, 27, 
and 28, were those omitted.] 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! 

Oh, dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem bight fool's-cap, lo ! a fiend, 

A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 

His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon'd glares a name spelt Wellesley ; 

And sundry signatures adown the roll, 
Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul. 

XXV. 

In golden characters, right well design'd, 

First on the list appeareth one « Junot;» 
Then certain other glorious names we find 

(Which rhyme compelleth me to place below) ; 
Dull victors ! baffled by a vanquish'd foe, 

Wheedled by coninge tongues of laurels due, 
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row, 

Sirs Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of t' other tew. 

XXVI. 

Convention is the dwarfy demon styled 

That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 

And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
For well I wot, when first the news did come 

That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost, 
For paragraph ne paper scarce had room, 

Such paeans teem'd for our triumphant host, 
In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post. 

XXVII. 

But when Convention sent his handiwork, 

Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar; 
Mayor, aldermen, laid down th' uplifted fork; 

The bench of bishops half forgot to snore: 
Stern Cobbett, who, for one whole week forbore 

To question aught, once more with transport leapt, 
And bit his dev'lish quill agen, and swore 

With foe such treaty never should be kept. 
Then burst the blatant beast,* and roar'd and raged, 
and — slept ! ! ! 

XXVIII. 
Thus unto Heaven appeal'd the people ; Heaven, 

Which loves the lieges of our gracious King, 
Decreed that ere our generals were forgiven, 

Inquiry should be held about the thing. 

' u Blatant beast,* a figure for the mob;— I think first used by 
Smollett in his « Adventures of an Atom.- Horace has the « Bellua 
multorum capitum.n In England, fortunately enough, the illus- 
trious mobility have not even one. 



ADDENDA 



749 



But Mercy cloak'd the babes beneath her wing; 

And as they spared our foes, so spared we them. 
(Where was the pity of our sires for Byng?) > 

Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn. 
Then live ye — triumph, gallant knights! and bless your 
judges' phlegm. » 

XXIX. 

But ever since that martial synod met, 

Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention sweat, 

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for 
shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ? 

Will not our own and fellow nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame 

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
year! 



TO MR HOBHOUSE, 

ON HIS IMPRISONMENT IN NEWGATE. 

What made you in Lob's Pound to go, 

My boy, Hobby? 
Because I bade the people throw 

The House into the lobby. 
You hate the House— why canvass then, 

My boy, Hobby ? 
Because I would reform the den, 

As member for the mobby. 
And who are now the people's men, 

My boy, Hobby? 
There 's I and Burdett, gentlemen, 

And blackguards Hunt and Cobby. 
And when amid your friends you speak, 

My boy Hobby, 
How is 't that you contrive to keep 

Your watch within your fobby ? 
Now tell me why you hate the Whigs, 

My boy, Hobby? 
Because they want to run their rigs 

As under Walpole Bobby. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 
SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 2 

Oh! mihi prteteritos referat si Jupiter annos. 

Virgil, JEneid, lib. viii, 56o. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past; 

Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; 

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied! 

1 By this que-ry it is not meant that our foolish Generals should 
have been shot, but that Byng might have been spared ; though the 
one suffered and the others escaped, probably for Candide's reason, 
u four encourager les auCres." 

2 This poem was printed in the first edition of Hours of Idleness, 
where the motto from Virgil was added. It was afterwards omit- 
ted.— Ed. 



Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we 
fought; 
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone 1 lay; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, 
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; 

While toswell my youngpridesuch applauses resounded, 
I fancied that Mossop 1 himself was outshone: 

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 
By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you! 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you ; 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida 2 full oft may remembrance restore me, 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which await me, 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 
« Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.» 

1806. 



TO D . 

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 

Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 

True she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I '11 lay my head- 
Without thee, where would be my heaven ! 
February, i8o3. 

1 Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance 
of Zanga, in Young's tragedy of the Revenge. 

2 The last two stanzas, as above, were not at first in the poem ; 
they replaced the following verses : — 

I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness, 
Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd ; 

But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness, 
Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd. 

Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your blest recollection 
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead, 

In torrents the tears of my warmest affection, 
The last and the fondest I ever shall shed. 

Ed. 



760 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. R. PIGOT, 
ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Why, Pigot, complain 

Of this damsel's disdain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret? 

For months you may try, 

Yet, believe me, a sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love? 

For a time seem to rove; 
At first she may frown in a pet; 

But leave her awhile, 

She shortly will smile, 
And then you may kiss your coquette. 

For such are the airs 

Of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt ; 

Yet a partial neglect 

Soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, 

And lengthen your chain, 
And seem her hauteur to regret; 

If again you shall sigh, 

She no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, from false pride, 

Your pangs she deride, 
This whimsical virgin forget ; 

Some other admire, 

Who will melt with your fire, 
And laugh at the little coquette. 

For me, I adore 

Some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly; but yet, 

Though my heart they enthral, 

I 'd abandon them all, 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 

No longer repine, 

Adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-woven net; 

Away with despair, 

No longer forbear, 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

Then quit her, my friend! 

Your bosom defend, 
Ere quite with her snares you 're beset: 

Lest your deep-wounded heart, 

When incensed by the smart, 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 2-jth, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

Your pardon, my friend, 

If my rhymes did offend, 
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er: 

From friendship 1 strove 

Your pangs to remove, 
But I swear I will do so no more. 



Since your beautiful maid 

Your flame has repaid, 
No more I your folly regret; 

She 's now most divine, 

And I bow at the shrine 
Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yet still, I must own, 

I should never have known 
From your verses, what else she deserved; 

Your pain seem'd so great, 

I pitied your fate, 
As your fair was so devilish reserved. 

Since the balm-breathing kiss 

Of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce; 

Since the « world you forget, 

When your lips once have met,» 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

You say, when « I rove, 

I know nothing of love;» 
Tis true, I am given to range: 

If I rightly remember, 

I 've loved a good number, 
Yet there 's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, 

By the rules of romance, 
To humour a whimsical fair; 

Though a smile may delight, 

Yet a frown won't affright, 
Or drive me to dreadful despair. 

While my blood is thus warm 

I ne'er shall reform, 
To mix in the Platonists' school ; 

Of this I am sure, 

Was my passion so pure, 
Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

And if I should shun 

Every woman for one, 
Whose image must fill my whole breast — 

Whom I must prefer, 

And sigh but for her — 
What an insult 't would be to the rest! 

Now, Strephon, good bye ; 

I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd; 

Such love as you plead 

Is pure love indeed, 
For it only consists in the word. 



TO MISS . 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence ! 

Could they see thee, Eliza, they 'd own their defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general resist- 
ance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven ; 

Instead of his houris — a flimsy pretence — 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 



ADDENDA. 



Yet still, to increase your calamities more, 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 

He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! — 
With souls you d dispense, but this last, who could 
bear it? 

His religion to please neither party is made; 

On husbands 't is hard, to the wives most uncivil; 
Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 

« Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil. » 



LINKS 

WRITTEN IN « LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENG- 
LISH GENTLEMAN. » BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. FOUNDED O.N 
FACTS. 

« Away, away ! your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts; 
And you will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving. » 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS . 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 

From which thou 'dst guard frail female hearts, 

Exist but in imagination. — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face, 

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 

Thou 'It there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises: 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty: 

All ! fly not from the candid youth; 

It is not flattery, — 't is truth. 

July, i8o4- 



THE CORNELIAN. 

No specious splendour of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever; 

With lustre only once it shone, 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 
Have for my weakness oft reproved me; 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, 

For I am sure the giver loved me. 

lie offer'd it with downcast look, 
As fearful that I might refuse it; 

I told him when the gift I took, 
My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 
And ever since I 've loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 



'T is not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 

Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
For once forgetting to be blind, 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well-proportion" d to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen, 
His form had fix'd her fickle breast; 

Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remain'd to give the rest. 1 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, 

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM. 2 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 

That clay where once such animation beam'd ; 
| The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 

Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem' d. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

liut wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 

Aud shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 
And, madly, godlike providence accuse? 

Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain, 
I '11 ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 

Yet fresli the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO EMMA. 

Since now the hour is come at last, 

V lien you must quit your anxious lover; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas! that pang will be severe, 

Which bids us part to meet no more, 

Which tears me far from one so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 

1 This poem was written on receiving a cornelian heart-shaped 
trinket from a young man named Edleston, who occupied the situ- 
ation of chorister at Cambridge, and to whom his lordship was 
much attached. — Ed. 

2 The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this 
piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection ; but as it was writ- 
tea at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age 
of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the 
indulgence of his friends in its present stale, to making either addi- 
tion or alteration. 

q5 



702 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Well : we have pass'd some happy hours, 
And joy will mingle with our tears; 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years; 

Where from the Gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell. 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to run, 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 
Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies, 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes: 

See still the little painted bark, 

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; 
See there, high waving o'er the park, 

The elm I clamber' d for your sake. 
These times are past — our joys are gone, 

You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 
These scenes I must retrace alone : 

Without thee what will they avail? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu! 



TO M. S. G. 

Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss; 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows? 

Yet is the daring wish represt, 

For that — would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 

Yet I conceal my love, and why? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 

No! for thou never canst be mine, 
United by the priest's decree ; 

By any ties but those divine, 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er slialt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know; 

With joy 1 court a certain doom, 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 



I will not ease my tortured heart, 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; 

Rather than such a sting impart, 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes! yield those lips, for which I 'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell ; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace, 

Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
No matron shall thy shame reprove; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay; 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs; 
Which said far more than words can say? 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu! 

Ah ! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE. 

When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; 

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, 

That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
breeze, 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 



ADDENDA. 



7 53 



'T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o*er my 
features, 

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
Which God has proclaim'd as the f;ite of his creatures, 

In the death -which one day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade; 

He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertakeus, 
And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow, 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low: 

Oh! thenletus drain, while we may, draughtsof pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; 

Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

i8o5. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? 

Oh, when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay .' 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurled me from bliss; 

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could 
assuage, 
On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its 
lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; 

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ; 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? 

If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

i8o5. 



TO LESBIA. 

Lesbia! since far from you I 've ranged, 
Our souls with fond affection glow not; 

You say 't is I, not you, have changed, 
I 'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; 

And, Lesbia! we are not much older, 
Since trembling first my heart I lost, 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder 



Sixteen was then our utmost age, 

Two years have lingering past away, love! 

And now new thoughts our minds engage, 
At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'T is I that am alone to blame, 
I, that am guilty of love's treason; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 

I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended, 
For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely; 

And — though our dream at last is ended — 
My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers; 

Absence has made me prone to roving; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared, — 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove, indeed; 
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love! 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 1 

'A BapStTG; Si yopSxt.; 
Eowra povvov hyi?- 

ANACREON. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ! 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 

Ye rhymers, 2 whose besoms with phantasy glow, 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, 

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art: 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the heart 

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 

1 These stanzas were printed in the first edition of Hours of 
Idleness, but subsequently omitted. — Ed. 

2 This verse, in the earlier copies, was somewhat differently 
turned : — 

Ye rhymers, who sing as if seated on snow, 

Whose pastoral passions are made for the! grove, 

With what blest inspirations your sonnets would flow, 
Could you ever Lave tasted the first kiss of love ! 



7->4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Your shepherds, your flocks, (hose fantastical themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move; 

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; 

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, 

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past — 
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove — 

The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 

As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies 
passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hiss- 
ing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were ad- 
dressed next morning. 

Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 

And hurtling ' o'er thy lovely head, 
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 

Diverted from its first career. 

Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; 
But Heaven, with interposing power, 
In pity turn'd the death aside. 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upon that thrilling bosom fell; 
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 

Extracted from its glistening cell: 

Say, what dire penance can atone 

For such an outrage done to thee? 
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 

What punishment wilt thou decree? 

Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deplore; 

It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before, 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt: 
Gome then, some other mode elect; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Chuse then, relentless! and I swear 

Nought shall thy dread decree prevent; 

Yet hold — one little word forbear! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 

1 This word is used by Gray, in his Poem to the Fatal Sisters: — 
Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtles through the darken 'd air. 



TO A LADY, 

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED 
WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER 
TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 

In firmer chains our hearts confine, 

Than all th' unmeaning protestations 

Which swell with nonsense love orations. 

Our love is fix'd, I think we 've proved it, 

Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it; 

Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, 

With groundless jealousy repine, 

With silly whims and fancies frantic, 

Merely to make our love romantic ? 

Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 

And fret with self-created anguish? 

Or doom the lover you have chosen, 

On winter nights to sigh half frozen; 

In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 

Only because the scene 's a garden? 

For gardens seem, by one consent, 

Since Shakspeare set the precedent, 

Since Juliet first declared her passion, 

To form the place of assignation. 1 

Oh ! would some modern muse inspire, 

And seat her by a sea-coal fire; 

Or had the bard at Christmas written, 

And laid the scene of love in Britain, 

He surely, in commiseration, 

Had changed the place of declaration. 

In Italy I 've no objection ; 

Warm nights are proper for reflection; 

But here our climate is so rigid, 

That love itself is rather frigid : 

Think on our chilly situation, 

And curb the rage for imitation; 

Then let us meet, as oft we ve done, 

Beneath the influence of the sun; 

Or, if at midnight I must meet you, 

Within your mansion let me greet you : 

There we can love for hours together, 

Much better, in sucli snowy weather, 

Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 

That ever witness'd rural loves. 

Then, if my passion fail to please, 

Next night I '11 be content to freeze; 

No mote I 11 give a loose to laughter, 

But curse my fate for ever after. 2 

1 In the above littlo piece, the author has been accused by some 
candid readers of introducing the name of a lady from whom he was 
some hundred miles distant at the time this was written ; and poor 
Juliet, who has slept so long in u the tomb of all the Capulets," has 
been converted, with a trilling alteration of her name, into an Eng- 
lish damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the 
month of DeccmLcr, in a village where the author never passed a 
winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics: we 
would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of de- 
corum to read Shakspeare. 

1 Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been 
passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from 
an admired work, Carr's "Stranger in France," chapter 16.— u As 
we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among 
other figures, is the uncovered whole-length of a warrior, a prudish- 
looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, 
after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to 
her party, that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. 
Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear, that the indecorum was 
in the remark." 



ADDENDA 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 



An 



«Et [J.Z 



Tue roses of love glad the garden of life, 

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent clew 
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 

Or prunes them for ever iu love's last adieu! 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 

The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu! 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
breast, 

Will whisper, «Our meeting we yet may renew;» 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's represt, 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu! 

Oh ! mark you you pair: in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his flow'rs as they 
grew ; 

They flourish'd awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu! 

Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? 

Yet why do I ask? — to distraction a prey, 
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; 

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel! 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast; 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea 1 declares that some penance is clue ; 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu! 

Who kneels to the god on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC SCHOOL. 2 

Where are those honours, Ida! once your own, 
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? 

1 The goddess of Justice. 

2 These Hues were uever primed before. Lord Byron most sin- 
cerely regretted having written ihis and i!.e subsequent attack on 



As ancient home, fast failing to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade, 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
-Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause. 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom: 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you but the name. 

July, : 



8o5. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT 

ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY 
DRAWN.' 

But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse, 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse >. 

Asst£y's A'eiv Balk Guide, p. 169. 

Candour compels me, Becher! to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause^ 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart; 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't coutrol, 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquishd iu the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chaius of love : 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove: 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon 1 boast is youth; — 
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be 't from me the « virgin's mind» to « taint :» 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 

Dr Butler contained in the poem called Childish Recollections. A 
reconciliation took place between them before Lord Byron's first de- 
parture for Greece; and Mr Moore informs us that, " not content 
with this private atonement to Dr Butler, it was Lord Byron's inten- 
tion, had he published another edition of the Hours of Idleness, to 
substitute for the offensive verses against that gentleman, a frank 
avowal of the w:ong he had been guilty of, in giving vent to them." 
Life of Byron.— Ed. 

1 These lines were printed in the tst edition of Hours of Idleness, 
but afterwards omitted. — Ed. 



756 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be « tainted" by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment the bosom with unholy fires, 
No net to snare her -willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling, and to nature true, 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud : 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26f/i, 1806. 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 

WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY. AUTHOR OF «THE WANDERER 
IN SWITZERLAND,)) ETC. ETC., ENTITLED « THE COMMON 
LOT.» 

Montgomery ! true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
Yet some shall never be forgot — 

Some shall exist beyond the grave. 

« Unknown the region of his birth,)) 

The hero 1 rolls the tide of war ; 
Yet not unknown his martial worth, 

Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or woe, 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all; 

Their glory will not sleep the same; 
That will arise though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death; 

The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye revives, 

Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The rolling seasons pass away, 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; 

Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 

1 No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, 
Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times the 
fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of 
Sweden, etc. are familiar to every historical reader, hut the exact 
places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their 
admirers. 



The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
Yet falls at length a useless fane; 

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

What though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard? 

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 

Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 

Some few, who ne'er will be forgot, 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 



1806. 



TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER. 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind, — 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind: 

I will not descend to a world I despise. 

Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require, 
Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth; 

And, when infancy's years of probation expire, 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 

The fire, in the cavern of iEtna conceal'd, 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess; — 

At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd, 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 

Oh thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope for Posterity's praise ; 

Could I soar, with the Phoenix, on pinions of flame, 
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 

What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave ! 

Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath — 
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave ! 

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? 

Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe; 
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 

To me what is wealth? it may pass in an hour, 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 

To me what is title? — the phantom of power; 
To me what is fashion? — I seek but renown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth; 

Then why should I live in a hateful control? 
Why waste upon folly the days of my youth? 



TO 



A YOUNG FRIEND, THE SON OF ONE OF 
HIS TENANTS AT NEWSTEAD. 

Let folly smile, to view the names , 

Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than Rank with vice combined. 



ADDENDA. 



And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd mv higher birth. 

Yet envy not this gaudy slate, — 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
>"or can thy lot mv rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 

Since Worth of Rank supplies the place. 
November, i 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.' 

I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me. 

MACBETH. 

— et dukes moriens retuiniscitur Argos. 

VIRGIL. 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unvielding pangs assail the drooping mind. 
What grisly forms, the spectre train of woe, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow; 
With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life ! 
Yet less the pang, when, through the tedious hour, 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
Calls back the vanish' d davs to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our heaven : 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 

1 This poem was published, with many additions and corrections, 
in the first edition of Hours of Idleness, but was altogether omitted 
in the subsequent ones. We place, at the bottom of our pages, pas- 
sages suppressed by Lord Byron in the first copy. Thus, the poem 
originally opened with the following lines : — 

Hence! thou unvarying song of varied loves, 

Which youth commends, maturer age reproves ; 

Which every rhyming bard repeats- by rote. 

By thousands echoed to the self-same note 1 

Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious strain, 
I is panting to be free again. 

Farewell '. ye nymphs propitious to my verse. 

Some other Damon will your charms rehearse; 

Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss, 

Or dwell in rapiure on your nectar'd kiss. 

Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, 

>"o more entrance my senses in delight ; 

Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow, 

Alike are tasteless, are unfeeling now. 

These to some happier lover I resign — 

The memory of those joys alone is mine. 

Censnre no more shall brand my humble name. 

The child of passion and the fool of fame. 

Weary of Jove, of life, dcvour'd with spleen, 

I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen. 

World : I renounce tiiee'. all my hope 's o'ercast: 

One sigh I give thee, but that sigh s the last. 

Friends, foes, and females, now alike adieu ! 

Would I could add, remembrance of you too : 

Vet though the future dark and cheerless gleams, 

The curse of memory, hov'ring in my dreams, 

Ttpicts with glowing pencil all those years, 

Ere vet my cup, empoison'd, flow'dwith tears; 

Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway, 

The past confounding with the present day. 
Alas ! in vain I check the maddening thought ; 

It still recurs, unlook*d for and unsought : 

3Iy soul to Fancy's . . . ex. ex. etc. as at line 29. Ed. 



As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm, 

The orb of day unveils his distant form, 

Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 

And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; 

Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 

The sun of memorv. glowing through my dreams, 

Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 

To scenes far distant points his paler rays, 

Still rules mv senses with unbounded sway, 

The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought: 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er Iter airy fields ; 
Scenes of my youth develop'd crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu! 
Seats of delight, inspiring vouthful themes; 
Friends lost to me for aye except in dreams; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of earlv science, future fame the source,; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place! 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 

Ida! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged bv time or distance, seem the same; 
Through winding paths, along the glade, I trace 
The social smile of ev'rv welcome face; 
My wonted haunts, mv scenes of joy and woe, 
Each early boyish friend or youthful foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past : — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of mv vouth '. when, nurtured in my breast, 
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When everv artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught bv worldlv wisdom how to feign, 
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes; 
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit, 
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
.Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
When now the bov is ripend into man, 
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
Smoothlv to speak, and cauticuslv to think ; 
Still to assent, and never to deny — 
A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
Although against that word his heart rebel, 
And truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
From tlattering fiends to tear the hateful mask: 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 



7 58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 

To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 

But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 

The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 

Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 

With this submission all her rage expired. 

From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 

She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 

Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew,' 

Pomposus' virtues are but known to few : 

I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 

And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 

If since on Granta's failings, known to all 

Who share the converse of a college hall, 

She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 

'T is past, and thus she will not sin again. 

Soon must her early song for ever cease, 

And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort; 
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 2 
Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him whom all unite to praise, 
The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
Probus, 3 the pride of science, and the boast, 
To Ida. now, alas ! for ever lost. 
With him for years we search'd the classic page, 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage : 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ;4 
Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear : 

1 Or if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pomposus' virtues, etc. 
Mr Moore informs us, that instead of this passage, Lord Byron 
meant to insert, 

If once my muse a harsher portrait drew. 
Warm with her wrongs, and deem'd the likeness true, 
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns,— 
With noble minds a fault, confess'd, atones. 

En. 

2 Instead of the present couplet, the first copies had the following 
four lines : 

Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown, 
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown ; 
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace, 
Adding new terror to his sneering face. — Ed. 

3 This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in 
March, i8o5, after having resided thirty-five years at Harrow; the 
last twenty as head master ; an office he held wiih equal honour to 
himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which he 
presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous : it would be use- 
less to enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A con- 
siderable contest took place between three rival candidates for his 
vacant chair : of this I can only say, 

Si mea, cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi! 
Non foret ambiguus tanti oertauiinis Hares. 

* Pomposus Jills his magisterial chair ; 
Pomposus governs, etc. 
Had Lord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it 
was his intention to give the following turn to this passage: 
Another fills his magisterial chair — 
Beluctant Ida owns a stranger's care ; 
Oh may like honours crown his f jture name ! 
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame. 

Moore's Life of Byron. —En. 



Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, 
To him my tribute is already paid. 1 

High, thro' those elms with hoary branches crown'-], 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round; 
There Science from her favour'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue; 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
In rival bands between the wickets run, 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 
While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 
Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
« 'T was here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought, 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
Here have we fled before superior might, 
And hererenew'd the wild tumultuous fight.» 
While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
Tn lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 
Secures its owner's academic fame; 
Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 
The one long graved, the other just begun: 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire: 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law; 
And now in turn possess the reins of power, 
To rule, the little tyrants of an hour ! — 

1 This alludes to a character printed in a former private edition 
for the perusal of some friends, which, with many other pieces, is 
withheld from the present volume. To draw the attention of the 
public to insignificance would be deservedly reprobated ; and an- 
other reason, though not of equal consequence, may be given in the 
following couplet: — 

Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? 
Who breaks a butterfly upon the wheel ? 

Pope. Prologue to the Satires. 
[The pieces his Lordship mentions above, are reprinted in the 
present edition. The character alluded to is'contained in page 755. 
-Ed.] 



ADDENDA. 



7°9 



Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 
They pass the dreary winter's eve avvav — 
« And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, 
And thus they dealt the combat side hy side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
While bold Pomposus bravely staid at home ,-» — 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurld, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face, 
Some old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found. 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! 1 've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, 
Quid hardly charm me when that friend was near : 
M\ thoughts bewilder' d in the fond surprise, 
Th woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumph' d over love. 

Yet why should I alone with such delight 
Rl race the circuit of my former flight? 
Is lere no cause bevond the common claim, 
En ear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah . sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Whi h whispers, friendship will be doubly dear 
To o e who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And .<■ ?ek abroad the love denied at home : 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee, 
A home, a world, a paradise to me ! 
Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care: 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made by a parent's early loss my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round rne seem; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice : 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 



A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine ; 
What then remains? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone? 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 1 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball, 
Together waited in our tutor's hall; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the green, declining shore, 
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore : 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Dayus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life; 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung 1 , 
A cry of horror burst from ev'ry tongue : 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
Fought on, unconscious of the impending blow, 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand. 2 
An act like this can simple thanks repay ? 3 
Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 

1 The following four lines were omitted from the origin .1 eopie 
of the poem : — 

Could aught inspire me with poetic fire, 

For thee alone I 'd strike the hallow'd lyre ; 

But to some abler hand the task I wave, 

Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave.— Ed. 

2 Some feud had arisen on the subject of the cricket-ground, 
while Byron was at Harrow School, between the, countrv people 
and the pupils ; and the engagement here recorded was brought on 
bv the breaking up of school and the dismissal of the volunteers 
from drill, both happening at the same hour. This circumstance 
accounts for the use of the musket, the but-end of which was aimed 
at Byron's head, and would have felled liini to the ground, but 
for the interposition of his friend Tatersall, a lively high-spirit- 
ed boy. — Ed. 

J An act like this can simple thinks rzpay'! In the earliest copies 

96 



760 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivaU'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit — 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 1 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung : 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our lies, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I '11 think we are so still. 
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit; 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 

of the poem, the last four lines of the character of Davus were as 

follows :— 

Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize — 
A life unworthy such a sacrifice : 
Oh ! when my breast forgets the generous deed. 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.— Ed. 

1 In the same copies, we find the following lines concluding the 
character of Lycus; and the remainder of the passage relating to 
him was originally given as descriptive of Clarus — whom we take to 
be the Earl of Clare, the dearest friend of Lord Byron. 

For ever to possess a friend in thee 

Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me. 

Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone, 

To ruder passions and to hate unknown : 

Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, 

Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm ; 

That face, an index of celestial worth, 

Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. 

Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding gloom, 

I sat reclined upon our favourite tomb, 

I 've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow 

With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe ; 

Or when less mournful subjects forui'd our themes, 

We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes, 

Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothiDg tone, 

Whatever wish was mine must be thine own. 

The next can boast to lead in senates fit — 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Clarus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where leatnin'i .... etc.erc. — L,i>. 



Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 

The world admire thee, and thy friends adore • 

Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race begun, 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither couquer'd in the classic strife: 
As speakers 1 each supports an equal name, 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 2 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn 
To trace the hours which never can return; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng; 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause, 
What gratitude to him my soul possest, 
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 2 
The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 

1 This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school 
where the author was educated. 

2 The six concluding lines of this passage were at first given as 
follows : — 

As speakers each supports a rival name. 
Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame. 
Pomposus sits, unequal to decide : 
With youthful candour we the palm divide ; 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own, 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. — Ed. 

3 From this place to the end, the second copy of the poem differs 
entirely from the first, which continued and concluded thus: — 

When, yet a novice in the mimic art, 
I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart; 
When as the Royal Slave I trod the stage, 
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage; 
The praise of Probus made me feel more proud 
Than all the plaudits of the listening crowd. 

Ah ! vain endeavour in this childish strain 
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain ! 
What can avail the fruitless loss of time, 
To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme ! 
No social solace from a friend is near. 
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. 
I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye: 
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh. 
Adieu ! thou world ! thy pleasure 's still a dream, 
Thy virtue but a visionary theme; 
The years of vice on years of folly roll, 
Till grinniDg Death assigns the destined goal. 
Where all are hastening to the dread abode, 
To meet the judgment of a righteous God ; 



ADDENDA. 



761 



Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 

These young effusions of my early days, 

To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 

The song might perish, hut the theme must live. 

Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 

His honour' d name requires no vain display : 

By every son of grateful Ida blest, 

It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 

A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 

Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ! 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
While, future hope and fear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 
And chase the phantom of what once was mine- 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
That tear perhaps the fondest which will tloyv 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along, 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 

Mix'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng, 

A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along ; 

A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, 

Curst by Reflection's deep-corroding sting ; 

But not that mental sting which stabs within, 

The dark avenger of nnpunish'd sin ; 

The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch 

Extended on a rack's untiring stretch : 

Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies — 

His mind the rack from which he ne'er can rise. 

For me, whate'er my folly or my fear, 

One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here: 

No dread internal haunts my hours of rest, 

No dreams of injured innocence infest; 

Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, 

Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left. 

Slander's empoison'd breath may blast my name; 

Envy delights to bli<;ht the buds of fame ; 

Deceit may chill the current of my blood, 

And freeze Affection's warm impassion'd flood; 

Presaging horror darken every sense ;— 

Even here will conscience be my best defence. 

My bosom feeds no u worm which ne'er can die :» 

Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. 

Thus crawling on, with many a reptile vile, 

My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile : 

No more with former bliss my heart is glad ; 

Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad: 

From fend regret no future joy can save ; 

Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.— Ed. 



Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 

While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; 

Say if remembrance days like these endears 

Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 

Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 

So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe ? 

Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 

Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 

Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys 

(For glittering baubles are not left to boys), 

Recal one scene so much beloved to view 

As those where Youth her garland twined for you? 

Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 

You turn with faltering hand life's varied page; 

Peruse the record of your days on earth, 

Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 

Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 

Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 

Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 

Traced by the rosy ringer- of the morn; 

When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 

And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth. 



ADDITIONAL STANZAS TO THE ODE TO 
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

There was a day — there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's— Gaul thine— 
When that immeasurable power 

Cnsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name, 

And gilded thy decline 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

But thou forsooth must be a king, 

And don the purple vest, 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment? where 

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state? 
Yes— one— the first — the last— the best— 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
To make ma a blush there was but one ! 



762 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



mtviimUb iftotmg* 



[ Although never publicly acknowledged by Lord Byrou, the following have been generally attribnted to his pen : the Publishers, 
without vouching for their authenticity, have therefore not hesitated to add them to this edition. ] 



TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, 

ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH. 

Hail — to this teeming stage of strife ! 
Hail, lovely miniature of life! 
Pilgrim of many cares untold! 
Lamb of the world's extended fold ! 
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears! 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years! 
How could I fainly bend the knee, 
And turn idolater to thee! 

'T is nature's worship — felt — confest, 
Far as the life which warms the breast : — 
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan, 
The rudest portraiture of man, 
In trackless woods and boundless plains, 
Where everlasting wildness reigns, 
Owns the still throb — the secret start — 
The hidden impulse of the heart. 

Dear babe ! ere yet upon thy years 

The soil of human vice appears, 

Ere passion hath disturb' d thy cheek, 

And prompted what thou durst not speak — 

Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care, 

Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair, 

Would I could wake thine untuned ear, 

And gust it with a father's prayer ! 

But little reck'st thou, oh my child ! 

Of travel on life's thorny wild; 

Of all the dangers — all the woes 

Each tottering footstep which inclose — 

Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene 

So darkly wrought that spreads between 

The little all we here can find, 

And the dark mystic sphere behind ! 

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born, 

Of clouds which gather round thy morn — 

Of arts to lure thy soul astray — 

Of snares that intersect thy way — 

Of secret foes — of friends untrue — 

Of fiends, who stab the hearts they woo : 

Little thou reck'st of this sad store — 

Would thou mightst never reck them more! 

But thou wilt burst this transient sleep, 

And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep — 

The tenant of a frail abode, 

Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd ; 

Beguiled by follies, every day, 

Sorrow must wash thy faults away; 

And thou must wake, perchance, to prove 

The pang of unrequited love. 

Unconscious babe ! though on that brow 
No half-fledged misery nestles now — 



Scarce round those placid lips a smile 
Maternal fondness shall beguile, 
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear 
Shall plant their dewy traces there, 
And prematurely pave the way 
For sorrows of a riper day. 

Oh ! could a father's prayer repel 

The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell ! 

Or could a father hope to bear 

A darling child's allotted care, 

Then thou, my babe, shouldst slumber still, 

Exempted from all human ill, 

A parent's love thy peace should free, 

And ask its wounds again for thee. 

Sleep on, my child ! the slumber brief 
Too soon shall melt away to grief; 
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break, 
And briny rills bedew that cheek: 
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes, 
That breast be agonized with sighs— 
And anguish o'er the beams of noon 
Lead clouds of care— ah ! much too soon ! 

Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown, 
Of wants and sorrows all their own — 
Of many a pang, and many a woe, 
That thy dear sex alone can know — 
Of many an ill, untold, unsung, 
That will not, may not, find a tongue — 
But, kept conceal'd, without control, 
Spread the fell cancers of the soul ! 

Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest! 
May joy still animate thy breast! 
Still, 'midst thy least propitious days, 
Shedding its rich inspiring rays! 
A father's heart shall daily bear 
Thy name upon its secret prayer, 
And as he seeks his last repose, 
Thine image ease life's parting throes. 

Then hail, sweet miniature of life ! 
Hail to this teeming stage of strife ! 
Pilgrim of many cares untold ! 
Lamb of the world's extended fold ! 
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years ! 
How could I fainly bend the knee, 
And turn idolater to thee ! 



TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 

And say'st thou that I have not felt, 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from mei 

Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 
On one unbroken dream of thee? 



ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 



7 63 



But love like ours must never be, 
And I will learn to prize thee less ; 

As thou hast fled, so let me flee, 

And change the heart thou mayst not bless. 

They '11 tell thee, Clara ! I have seem'd, 

Of late, another's charms to woo, 
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd 

That thou wert banish'd from my view. 
Clara ! this struggle — to undo 

What thou hast done too well, for me — 
This mask before the babbling crew — 

This treachery — was truth to thee? 
I have not wept while thou wert gone, 

Nor worn one look of sullen woe ; 
But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah ! need I name her !) could bestow. 
It is a duty which I owe 

To thine — to thee — to man— to God, 
To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 
But, since my breast is not so pure, 

Since still the vulture tears my heart, 
Let me this agony endure, 

Not thee, oh i dearest as thou art! 
In mercy, Clara ! let us part, 

And I will seek, yet know not how, 
To shun, in time, the threatening dart; 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 
But thou must aid me in the task, 

And nobly thus exert thy power; 
Then spurn me hence — t is all I ask — 

Ere time mature a guiltier hour; 
Ere wrath's impending vials shower 

Remorse redoubled on my head ; 
Ere fires unquenchably devour 

A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 
Deceive no more thyself and me, 

Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 
Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, 

From woe like ours — from shame like thine? 
And, if there be a wrath divine, 

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, 
E'en now all future hope resign : 

Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death ! 



THE PRINCE OF WHALES. 

Io Paean ! Io ! sing 

To the finny people's king — 

Not a mightier whale than this 

In the vast Atlantic is ; 

Not a fatler fish than he 

Flounders round the Polar sea: 

See his blubber — at his gills 

What a world of drink he swills ! 

From his trunk as from a spout, 

Which next moment he pours out. 

Such his person : next declare, 

Muse ! who his companions are. 

Every fish of generous kind 

Scuds aside or slinks behind, 

But about his person keep 

All the monsters of the deep ; 

Mermaids, with their tales and singing, 

His deli'ghted fancy stinging; 



Crooked dolphins, they surround him; 

Dog-like seals, they fawn around him : 

Following hard, the progress mark 

Of the intolerant salt sea-shark — 

For his solace and relief 

Flat fish are his courtiers chief; — 

Last and lowest of his train, 

Ink-fish, libellers of the main, 

Their black liquor shed in spite — 

(Such on earth the things that write). 

In his stomach, some do say 

No good thing can ever stay; 

Had it been the fortune of it 

To have swallow' d the old prophet, 

Three days there he 'd not have dwell'd, 

But in one have been expell'd. 

Hapless mariners are they, 

Who, beguiled, as seamen say, 

Deeming it some rock or island, 

Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land, 

Anchor in his scaly rind ; 

Soon the difference they find, 

Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them — 

Does to ruthless waves bequeath them. 

Name or title, what has he? 

Is he regent of the sea? 

From the difficulty free us, 

Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnaeus ! 

With his wondrous attributes 

Say — what appellation suits? 

By his bulk and by his size, 

By his oily qualities, 

This, or else my eye-sight fails, 

This should be the Prince of Whales. 



TO THE LILY OF FRANCE. 

Ere thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, 

False emblem of innocence ! stay — 
And yield as thou fadest, for the use of mankind, 

The lesson that marks thy decay. 
Thou wert fair as the beam of the morn, 

And rich as the pride of the mine : 
Thy charms are all faded, and hatred and scorn, 

The curses of freedom, are thine. 
Thou wert gay in the smiles of the world, 

Thy shadow protection and power ; 
But now thy bright blossom is shrivell'd and curl'd — 

The grace of thy country no more. 
For Corruption hath fed on thy leaf, 

And Bigotry weaken'd thy stem ; 
Now those who have fear'd thee shall smile at thy grief, 

And those who adored thee condemn. 
The valley that gave thee thy birth 

Shall weep for the hope of its soil ; 
The legions, that fought for thy beauty and worth, 

Shall hasten to share in thy spoil. 
As a by-word, thy blossom shall be 

A mock and a jest among men ; 
The proverb of slaves, and the sneer of the free, 

In city, and mountain, and glen. 
Oh! 't was Tyranny's pestilent gale 

That scatter'd thy buds on the ground ; 
That threw the blood-stain on thy virgin-white veil, 

And pierced thee with many a wound ! 



7U 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Then the puny leaf shook to the wind, 

Thy stem gave its strength to the hlast ; 
Thy full-bursting blossom its promise resign'd, 

And fell to the storm as it pass'd. 
For no patriot vigour was there, 

No arm to support the weak flower ; 
Destruction pursued its dark herald — Despair, 

And wilher'd its grace in an hour. 
Yet there were who pretended to grieve, 

There were who pretended to save ; 
Mere shallow empyrics who came to deceive, 

To revel and sport on its grave. 
O thou land of the lily! in vain 

Thou strugglest to raise its pale head! 
The faded bud never shall blossom again — 

The violet will bloom in its stead ! 
As thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind — 

False emblem of innocence ! stay — 
And yield as thou fadest, for the use of mankind, 

This lesson, to mark thy decay. 



MADAME LAV ALETTE. 

Let Edinburgh critics o'erwhelm with their praises 

Their Madame de Stae'I, and their famed l'Epinasse : 
Like a meteor at best proud philosophy blazes, 

And the fame of a wit is as brittle as glass : 
But cheering 's the beam and unfading the splendour 

Of thy torch, wedded love ! and it never has yet 
Shone with lustre more holy, more pure, or more tender, 

Than it sheds on the name of the fair Lavalette. 
Then fill high the wine-cup, e'en virtue shall bless it, 

And hallow the goblet which foams to her name ; 
The warm lip of beauty shall piously press it, 

And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame : 
To the health of the woman who freedom, and life too, 

Mas risk'd for her husband, we'll pay the just debt; 
And hail with applauses the heroine and wife too, 

The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette. 
Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice, 

To their captive a doom which all Europe abhors, 
And turns from the stairs of the priest-h.iunted palace, 
While those who replaced them there blush for their cause 
But in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd glory 

Of dukes, and of marshals, in darkness hath set, 
Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading the story 

Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lavalette. 



STANZAS. 

I heard thy fate without a tear, 

Thy loss with scarce a sigh ; 
And yet thou wert surpassing dear — 

Too loved of all to die. 
I know not what hath sear'd mine eye : 

The tears refuse to start; 
But every drop its lids deny 

Falls dreary on my heart. 
Yes — deep and heavy, one by one, 

They sink, and turn to care; 
As cavern'd waters wear the stone, 

Yet, dropping, harden there. 
They cannot petrify more fast 

Than feelings sunk remain, 
Which, coldly fix*d, regard the past, 

But never melt again. 



ODE TO ST HELENA. 

Peace to thee, isle of the ocean ! 

Hail to thy breezes and billows! 
W 7 here, rolling its tides in perpetual devotiou, 
The white wave its plumy surf pillows ! 
Rich shall the chaplet be history shall weave thee! 

Whose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow, 
When nations, that now in obscurity leave thee, 

To the wand of oblivion alternately bow ! 
Unchanged in thy glory— unstain'd in thy fame — 
The homage of ages shall hallow thy name ! 

Hail to the chief who reposes 

On thee the rich weight of his glory ! 
"When nll'd to its limit, life's chronicle closes, 
His deeds shall be sacred in story ! 
His prowess shall rauk with the first of all ages, 

And monarchs hereafter shall bow to his worth — 
The songs of the poets — the lessons of sages — 

Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the earth. 
The meteors of history before thee shall fall — 
Eclipsed by thy splendour — thou meteor of Gaul! 

Hygeian breezes shall fan thee — 

Island of glory resplendent ! 
Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man thee — 
Tribes, as thy waves independent ! 
On thy far-gleaming strand the wanderer shall stay him 

To snatch a brief glance at a spot so renown'd — 
Each turf, and each stone, and each cliff, shall delay him 
Where the step of thy exile hath hallow'd thy ground. 
From him shalt thou borrow a lustre divine; 
The wane of his sun was the rising of thine ! 

Whose were the hands that enslaved him ? 
Hands that had weakly withstood him — 
Nations which, while they had oftentimes braved 
him, 
Never till now had subdued him! 
Monarchs — who oft to his clemency stooping, 

Beceived back their crowns from the plunder of war: 
The vanquisher vanquish'd — the eagle now drooping — 
Would quench with their sternness the ray of his star! 
But clothed in new splendour thy glory appears — 
And rules the ascendant— the planet of years ! 

Pure be the heath of thy mountains ! 
Rich be the green of thy pastures! 
Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains ! 
Thine annals unstain'd by disasters ! 
Supreme in the ocean a rich altar swelling, 

Whose shrine shall be hail'd by the prayers of man- 
kind — 
Thy rock-beach the rage of the tempest repelling — 
The wide-wasting contest of wave and of wind — 
Aloft on thy battlements long be unfurl'd 
The eagle that decks thee — the pride of the world ! 

Fade shall the lily, now blooming — 

Where is the hand which can nurse it? 
Nations who rear'd it shall watch its consuming — 
Untimely mildews shall curse it. 
Then shall the violet that blooms in the valleys 

Impart to the gale its reviving perfume — 
Then, when the spirit of liberty rallies 

To chaunt forth its anthems on tyranny's tomb, 
Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should break forth, 
Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the North ! 



APPENDIX. 



7 65 



frppexibix. 



PREFACE TO THE « HOURS OF IDLENESS." 1 
In submitting to the public eye the following collec- 
tion, I have not only to combat the difficulties that 
writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the 
charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the 
world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my aye, 
more usefully employed. These productions are the 
fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has 
lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the 
internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps 
unnecessary information. Some few were written dur- 
ing the disadvantages of illness and depression of 
spirits: under the former influence, « Childish Kecol- 
lections," in particular, were composed. This consi- 
deration, though it cannot excite the voice of Praise, 
may at least arrest the arm of Censure. A considerable 
portion of these poems has been privately printed, at 
the request and for the perusal of'my friends. I am 
sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious ad- 
miration of a social circle is not the criterion by which 
poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, « to do greatly, » 
we must « dare greatly ;» and I have hazarded my re- 
putation and feelings in publishing this volume. « J 
have passed the Rubicon,)) and must stand or fall by 
the « cast of the die.» In the latter event, I shall sub- 
mit without a murmur; for, though not without soli- 
citude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations 
are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may 
have dared much and done little; for, in the words of 
Cowper, « it is one thing to write what may please our 
friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a 
little biassed in our favour, and another to write what 
may please every body; because they who have no 
connexion, or even knowledge of the author, will be 
sure to find fault if they can.» To the truth of this, 
however, I do not wholly subscribe : on the contrary, 
I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated 
with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be 
liberally allowed ; their numerous faults, on the other 
hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied 
to others of maturer years, decided character, and far 
greater ability. I have not aimed at exclusive origina- 
lity, still less have I studied any particular model for 
imitation : some translations are gbven, of which many 
are -paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may ap- 
pear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I 
have been accustomed to read; but I have not been 
guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing 
entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be an 
Herculean task, as every subject has already been 
treated to its utmost extent.— Poetry, however, is not 
my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, 
urged me « to this sin:» little can be expected from so 
unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, 
1 Printed in the first edition, but afterwards omitted.— Ed. 



is all I shall derive from these productions; and I 
shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck 
a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at 
best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger 
days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands 
of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of 
such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might 
enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, who 
have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive 
considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their 
productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an 
interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all pro- 
bability with a very slight share of the former, I leave 
to others « Yirum volitare per ora.» I look to the few 
who will hear with patience « dnlce est desipere in 
loco.» — To the former worthies I resign, without re- 
pining, the hope of immortality, and content myself 
with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking 
«amongst the mob of gentlemen who write,»— my 
readers must determine whetherl daresay « with ease;» 
or the honour of a posthumous page in « The Catalogue 
of Royal and Noble Authors," a work to which the 
Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch "as 
many names of considerable length, sound, and^inti- 
quity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity which 
unluckily overshadows several voluminous productions 
of their illustrious bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this 
first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambi- 
tion may be ascribed many actions more criminal and 
equally absurd. To a few of my own age the contents 
may afford amusement : I trust they will, at least, be 
found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my si- 
tuation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever ob- 
trude myself a second time on the public; nor even, 
in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall 
I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same 
nature. The opinion of Dr Johnson on the Poems of 
a noble relation of mine, 1 « That when a man of rank 
appeared in the character of an author, his merit 
should be handsomely acknowledged,)) can have little 
weight with verbal, and still less with periodical cen- 
sors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail 
myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the 
bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph 
in honours granted solely to a title. 



II. 
PREFACE TO THE « VISION OF JUDGMENT... 2 

It hath been wisely said, that « One fool makes 
many;» and it hath been poetically observed, 

That fools rush in where angels fear to tread.— Pope. 
If Mr Southey had not rushed in where he had no 

1 The Earl ofCarlisle, whose works have long received the meed of 
public applause to which, by their intrinsic worth, they were well 

poem, but miscarried.— En. 



entitled. 

- Sent to England with 



7 66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



business, and where he never was before, and never 
will be again, the following poem would not have been 
written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as 
his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupi- 
dity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, 
the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and im- 
pious cant of the poem by the author of Wat Tyler, are 
something so stupendous as to form the sublime of 
himself — containing the quintessence of his own attri- 
butes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In 
this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate 
to draw the picture of a supposed « Satanic School, » 
the which he doth recommend to the notice of the le- 
gislature; thereby adding to his other laurels the am- 
bition of those of an informer. If there exists any 
where, excepting in his imagination, such a school, is 
he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense 
vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers 
whom MrS. imagines, like Scrub, to have « talked of 
him; for they laughed consumedly.» 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to 
whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in 
their individual capacities, have done more good in the 
charities of life to their fellow-creatures in any one 
year, than Mr Southey has done harm to himself by his 
absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great 
deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 

istly. Is Mr Southey the author of Wat Tyler? 
2dly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a 
blasphemous and seditious publication? 

3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
parliament, « a rancorous renegado ?» 

4thly. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines 
on Martin the regicide staring him in the face ? 

And 5thly. Putting the four preceding items to- 
gether, with what conscience dare he call the attention 
of the laws to the publications of others, be they what 
they may? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding ; 
its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch 
upon the motive, which is neither more nor less than 
that Mr S. has been laughed at a little in some recent 
publications, as he was of yore in the « Anti-jacobin» 
by his present patrons. Hence all this « skimble scam- 
ble stuff» about « Satanic, » and so forth. However, it 
is worthy of him — « Qualis ab inceplo.» 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opi- 
nions of a portion of the public in the following poem, 
they may thank Mr Southey. He might have written 
hexameters, as he has written every thing else, for aught 
that the writer cared — had they been upon another 
subject. But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, 
whatever were his household virtues, was neither a suc- 
cessful nor a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years 
of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, 
to say nothing of the aggression upon France, — like all 
other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In 
whatever manner he may be spoken of in this new 
« Vision, » his public career will not he more favourably 
transmitted by hislory. Of his private virtues (although 
a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt. 
With regard to the supernatural personages treated 
of, 1 can only say that I know as much about them, 



and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of 
them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them 
more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane 
creature, the laureate, deals about his judgments in the 
next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was 
not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. 
I don't think that there is much more to say at pre- 
sent. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in 
these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
« Vision.» But for precedents upon such points I must 
refer him to Fielding's « Journey from this World to 
the next,» and to the Visions of myself, the said Que- 
vedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also re- 
quested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted 
upon or discussed ; that the person of the Deity is care- 
fully withheld from sight, which is more than can be 
said for the laureate, who hath thought proper to make 
him talk, not « like a school divine, » but like the un- 
scholarlike Mr Southey. The whole action passes on 
the outside of heaven; and Chaucer's Wife of Bath, 
Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and 
the other works above referred to, are cases in point 
of the freedom with which saints, etc. may be per- 
mitted to converse in works not intended to be 
serious. 

Q.R. 

[V Mr Southey being, as lie says, a pood Christian and vindictive, 
threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer. It is to be 
hoped thathis visionary faculties will in the mean timehave acquired 
a little more judgment, properly so called : otherwise he will get 
himself into new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins furnish rich 
rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr Southey laudeth griev- 
ously « one Mr Landor," who cultivates much private renown in the 
shape of Latin verses ; and not long ago, the poet laureate dedicated, 
to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of 
a poem called Gebir. Who could suppose, that in this same Gebir 
the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth 
into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of his friend 
Mr Southey's heaven,— yea, even George the Third ! See also how 
personal Savage becometh, when he hath a miDd. The following 
is his porlrait of our late gracious sovereign: 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, 
the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called 
up to his view, and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 

u Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow? 
Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine, 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 
He too amongst my ancestors! I hate 
The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
Was he our countryman?" 

u Alas, king! 
Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east.» 
u He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods ?" 
« Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not (he gods, 
Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
And the tame cruelty and cold ciprice— 
Oh madness of mankind! address'd, adored!" 

Gebir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Sa> agius, wishing 
to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indis- 
creet worshipper will suffer it; but certainly these teachers of 
« great moral lessons" are apt to be found in strange company.] 



APPENDIX. 



767 



III. 

CHILDE HAROLD. 

« Originally the Page and Yeoman of the Childe,» 
says Mr Moore, «were introduced to the reader's notice 
in llie following tame stanzas, hy expanding the sub- 
stance of which into their present light, lyric shape, it is 
almost needless to remark how much the poet has 
gained in variety and dramatic effect: — 

And of his train (hero was a henchman page, 
A peasant boy, who served his master welt ; 
And often would his pranksome prate engage 
Chi'de Harold's ear, when his proud heart did swell 
With sullen thoughts that he disdain'd to tell, 
Then he would smile on him, and Harold smiled. 
When aught that from his young lips archly fell 
The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled. 

Ilim and one yeoman only did he take 
To travel eastward to a far countrie ; 
And, though the boy was grieved to leave the lake 
On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 
Eftsoons his little heart beat merrily 
With hope of foreign nations to behold, 
And many things right marvellous to see, 
Of which our vaunting travellers have told, 
From JIandeville * *. 

« In place of that mournful song ' To Inez,' in the 
1st Canto, which contains some of the dreariest touches 
of sadness that even his pen ever Jet fall, he had, in the 
original construction of the poem, been so little fasti- 
dious as to content himself with such ordinary sing- 
song as the following : — 

Oh never tell again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ! 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, etc. etc. etc.» 
Moore, Life. 



IV. 

MARINO FALIERO. 

« The lines which follow were sent to Mr Murray by 
Lord Byron, with a desire that they should be inserted 
in a speecii of the Doge, as a remark on that part of the 
sentence pronounced against him which related to his 
portrait: — 

But let it be so. It will be in vain : 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
Which glitter round it in their painted trappings, 
Yoi;r delegated slaves— the people's tyrants. 

Perhaps from some difficulty in inserting them, they 
were never inserted in the tragedy. » — Moore, Life. 



V. 
THE IRISH AVATAR. 

« In one copy, the following sentence, (taken from a 
letter of Curran, in the able life of that true Irishman, 
written by his son), is prefixed as a motto to the poem: — 
' And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to 
receive the paltry rider.' — At the end of the verses are 
these words: — ' (Signed) W. L. B * *, M. A., and written 
with a view to a bishoprick.' » — Moore, Life. 



DEDICATION TO « SARDANAPALUS. »< 

to 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

A STRANGER 

PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE 

OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, 

THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED 

THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION 

WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM 

IS ENTITLED 

SARDANAPALUS. 



VII. 

THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 

« There were in this poem, originally, three lines of 
remarkable strength and severity, which, as the Italian 
poet against whom they were directed was then living, 
were omitted in the publication. I shall here give them 
from memory: — 

The prostitution of his muse and wife, 

Both beautiful, and both by him debased, 

Shall salt his bread, and give bim means of life." 

MooRE, Life. 



VIII. 

ADDITIONAL LINES 

INSERTED IN THE FIFTH (SUPPRESSED) EDITION OF "ENG- 
LISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. » 

Ln page 27, 2d col., after the line « Go on,» etc. 

But hold ! exclaims a friend, — here 's some neglect: 
This — that — and t' other line seem incorrect. 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And careless Dryden — ay, but Pye has not — 
Indeed! — 't is granted, faith !— but what care I? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

In page 32, 1st col., after line 16. 
Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain ! 
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, 
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere— 
This scents its pages, and that gilds,its rear. 2 

In page 36, 2d col., lines 3-5, 36 were thus changed— 
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's verse 
Can make thee better, or poor Hewson [Clarke]'* worse. 

' The above dedication was sent to England by Lord Byron, to be 
printed along with the drama it mentions, but some accident or ne- 
gligence prevented the intention from being acted on. Our readers 
will however have already seen, at page 384, that a short comph- 
mentary inscription to Goethe of his . Werner » was afterwards sub- 
stituted for it by his Lordship.— Ed. 

2 See the colour of the back binding of the Edinburgh Review. 

97 



7 68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IX. 
REMARKS OF LORD RYRON 

ON SEVERAL PASSAGES OF « ENGLISH BARDS,)) ETC. 

These strictures, dated 1S16, were ivritten in pencil by 
his Lordship on the margins of a copy of the above 
work. We cite the lines, etc. commented on, and then 
the remarks, beginning with the two opening lines — 

Still must I hear?— shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall ? 
Right enough ; but why notice such a mountebank ? 

Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No Eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 

Inspires . . . . - 

Page 27, column 1, line 3. 

This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy. 

This Lambe must own, etc.— P. 27, c. i, /. 35. 
He 's a very good fellow, and, except his mother and sis- 
ter, the best of the set, to my mind. 

to be misled 

By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head, — P. 27, c. 2, /. 3. 
This was not just. Neither the heart nor the head of 
these gentlemen are at all -what they are here repre- 
sented. At the time this was written (1808) I was per- 
sonally unacquainted with either. 

Nest comes the dull disciple of thy [Snuthey's] school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 

The simple Wordsworth 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To tumid ode and turgid stanza dear ?— P. 29, c. 1, 1. iS et seq. 
Unjust.' 

[Bowles] gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss ! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.— P. 3o, c. 1, 1. 43. 
Misquoted and misunderstood by me ; but not inten- 
tionally. It was not the «woods,» but the people in 
them who trembled — why, Heaven only knows — unless 
they were overheard making the prodigious smack. 
And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.— P. 3o, c. 2, /. 22. 

Too savage all this on Bowles. 

Fresh fish from Helicon '. etc. — P. 3o, c. 2, /. 29. " 
« Helicon » is a mountain, and not a fishpond. It should 
have been Hippocrene. 

Oh, Amos Cottle! etc.— P. 3o, c. 2, /. 37. 

All right. 1 saw some letters of this fellow (Joseph 

Cottle) to an unfortunate poetess, whose productions, 
which the poor woman by no means thought vainly of, 
he attacked so roughly and bitterly, that I could hardly 
resist assailing him, even -were it unjust, which it is not 
—for verily he is an ass. 

His [Jeffrey's] scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat.— P. 3i, c. 1, /. 4»» 

Too ferocious — this is mere insanity. 

Can none remember that eventful day, etc.— P. 3i, c. 1, /. 5i. 

All this is bad, because personal. 

1 This emphatic word is repeated, on another couplet in p. 36, 
where his Lordship had spoken disparagingly of these gentlemen.— 
Ed. 



Illustrious Holland ! etc.— P. 3j. 



>,/. .7. 



Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds, too. 

Raise not your scythe, etc.— P. 33, c. 1, /. 27—32. 
Good. 

" A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the 
Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammons" etc. 

P. 33, c. 1, note. 

True. It was Billy W — y who lost the money. I knew 
him, and was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of 
the event. 

Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost, 

To fight my course thro' passion's countless host. — P. 33, c. 2, /. 40. 

Yes : and a precious chase they led me. 

u What art thou better, meddling fool ! than they In— Ibid. I. 47. 

Fool enough, certainly, then, and no wiser since. 

No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 

The paralytic piling of Carlisle. — P. 34, c. 1, /. 19. 

Wrong also — the provocation was not sufficient to jus- 
tify the acerbity. 

« This lovely little Jessica," etc.— P. 34, note. 
She since married the Morning Post — an exceeding 
good match — and is since dead — -which is better. 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall. — P. 34, c. 2, /. 9. 
This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then patron- 
ized by A. I. B.; but that I did not know, or this would 
not have been written, at least I think not. 

And thou, melodious Rogers, etc.— P. 34, c. 2, /. 5o. 
Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his first poems, 
but has still very great merit. 

This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; 

Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. — P. 35, c. 2, /. 3. 

I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these 
times in point of power and genius. 

Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest 

Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best.— P. 36, c. 1, /. 19. 

Much too savage, -whatever the foundation might be. 

And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, 

Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.— P. 36, c. 2, /. 1 1 . . 

The devil take that phoenix ! How came it there? 

There Clarke, still striving, etc.— P. 36, c. 2, /. 25. 

Right enough : this was well deserved, and well laid on. 

I leave topography to classic Gell.— P. 3^, c. 1, /. 4o. 
Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are some- 
what changed as to the above lines. Gell's survey (of 
Troy and Ithaca) was hasty and superficial. 

Unscared by all the din of Melbourne-house.— P. 37, c. 2, /. 5. 
Singular enough, and din enough, God knows. 

The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish 
had never been written — not only on account of the in- 
justice of much of the critical, and some of the personal 
part of it — but the tone and temper are such as I can- 
not approve. — Byron. July 14, 1816. 
Diodati, Geneva. 



THE END. 



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